A Ripping Yarn of the Howondalandian War of 1876
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: 100 years before "now", the Ankh-Morporkian Empire is dwindling and dying. Like Leshp, a forgotten colony emerges, causing Diplomacy. Setting the scene for a longer tale to come, of heroism, choral singing.Based on obscure references in the Canon of TP.
1. Prologue: a history lesson

_**A Ripping Yarn of the Howondalandian War of 1876.**_

_**Prologue: **_ in the great Empire-building days of Tacticus, the Morporkian Empire spread nearly everywhere on the Disc. It stretched to Genua, and in the opposite direction met the circling sea at Hergen on the other side of Llamedos. With Klatch defeated and dismembered, the Empire marched on through the steaming jungles and the veldt beyond, and met the sea again on the Howondalandian coast.

Morporkians were arrogant in those days: having met and defeated mighty Klatch, having concluded favourable peace treaties with yesterday's empires of Ephebe, Tsort and Djelibeybi, and having warned Omnia not to send any more missionaries, thank you very much, they could be forgiven for thinking that their Empire would last a thousand years.

In this spirit, colonists were sent out, to raise daughter nations in the spirit of the motherland. The clement grasslands in the south of Howondaland were claimed for Morpork, and such of the native inhabitants who were not deemed useful as labourers and indentured workers were forced into the jungle, or into the arid semi-desert scrubland further inland.

To add to the brew, only about half of the colonial settlers came from Ankh-Morpork. Others, lured by the prospect of rich farmland and a state they could call their own, came from the region of Sto Kerrig and Sto Lat.

They took with them the original language of the Sto Plains, a tongue related to Morporkian but different enough to be unintelligible to the ears of Morporkians. Thus, the rolling grassland Morporkian speakers called _Downs_ or _the Wold_ was, to the expatriate Kerrigians, _De Veldt_. The words are close – Wold and Veldt – and say something of the languages being close. But not, alas, too alike for easy mutual understanding. This fault line between the two races of White Howondalandians was to cause sorrow and strife later. Not to say the hate and resentment of the displaced natives.

The colonies were established. And for a while all was well. The Morporkians doggedly ate food and wore clothes suitable to a colder climate, while the Kerrigians, or **Boors**, grew tulips and built windmills to remind them of home. Skirmishes were fought with disaffected natives, but nothing serious threatened the colony.

And then Empire retreated.

The two white tribes of Howondaland slowly and painfully realised that they were now driftwood, left behind on the ebb-tide of Empire. Communications with the Motherland became more sporadic, then virtually died as a resurgent Klatch cut the northern route to the Circle Sea, leaving only the long and problematical sea passage around the flank of two continents.

The settlers realised that to survive, they had to set aside their own differences and become ruthless. They nodded. They rolled up their sleeves and became ruthless and for over two hundred years, made their country work.

And then two things happened. Gold and diamonds were discovered; and the _N'Tolerant_ Kwa'Zulu confederation emerged out in the arid semi-desert. This was bad – foreign policy had always revolved around keeping the blecks separate and preventing them from uniting. Now the neighbours were assembling under the command of a charismatic paramount chief, preaching the gospel of throwing the white man out of Howondaland.

Storm clouds were gathering over White Howondaland.


	2. The Council of War

_**Pratoria. The Free State of Oranges. August 1875. **_

In Pratoria (1), the leaders of the white colony have gathered to debate the emergency.

"They won't come." Jan Blots (2) declared, flatly. "It's an ebsellute bleddy waste of time to send a mission to Enkh-Morpork. They'll just sey – _Oh, so you're still hanging on down there? Congratulations, chaps!_" end send us a framed iconogreph of the Petricien to heng up on the wall. They won't send fighting soldiers, end thet is the _only_ aid we need!"

Blots' wide farmer's face was red with fury and embarrassment. His khaki safari suit was rumpled and damp with sweat in the Howondalandian summer and clung unflatteringly to his stocky frame.

Cecil Smith-Rhodes, by consent the current Prime Minister, allowed Blots time to work out his frustration. Inwardly, he was thinking _Cheesemakers. Tulip-growers. Windmill mechanics. I just wish more of us were Morporkian. _

Smith-Rhodes is a man who would be proud if you called him an imperialist and a racist. He would argue that the white races had superior Gods and were innately superior, and as such had a gods-given right to rule over the _lesser races, _the blacks and the coloured. Where, he said, on the panoply of the gods of Dunmanifestin, is there a black one? Do you see a Howondalandian God there? No, and there is a reason for that!

To this end, he came to prominence by his insistence the colony expand its borders. He had led the expedition into neighbouring Rumbabwe, capturing it quickly and incorporating it into the colony. The new lands wee immediately hailed as Rhodesia after their conqueror. The former inhabitants, two peace-loving tribes, were either assimilated on the usual conditions, to pay rent to live in what had been their own country and to labour in the fields of the new white masters, to earn the money to pay that rent and preserve some sort of meagre living. Or else had fled and joined the KwaZulu Confederation.

"I think they'll listen this time, Jan." Cecil said, soothingly, He opened a leather pouch and tipped a handful of glowing white stones on the desktop. "I sent a far larger bag of these little beauties with the messenger. The message was – if you will not send your army freely, we'll rent it. Oh, they'll come."

"Yes, to capture the gold and diamond mines!" burst out another Boor. Verkramp3 is a tall, thin, man with a receding chin and a painfully prominent adam's apple. He is high in the counsels of BOSS, the Bureau Of State Security, lives in a paranoid altered state of consciousness, and sees threats and enemies everywhere.

"Please, meinheer Verkramp!" said Smith-Rhodes. "Try not to be so suspicious. What good their taking our mines if five minutes later, the _impis_ of the _M'Becil_ and the _N'Coherent and the N'Comprehensibl _capture them for the _Kwa'Zulu_?

After that, those of us who cannot escape will be slaves to the black."

He paused to let this awful concept sink in.

"Think of our womenfolk."

He didn't elaborate. Everyone in the room pondered the most awful, terrifying, fate of all. White women at the mercy of _kaffirs_.

Smith-Rhodes grinned internally. That particular _non sequiteur_ always silenced argument. It was a useful ploy with the Boors.

_________________________________________________________________

(1) Founded by pioneer settler Andres van der Prats, hence _**City of Prats**_

(2) A founder of the controversial 20th century Republic of South Africa was General Jan Smuts, a Boer who had an impressive record of victories against the British. He was also responsible for laying down the first principles of _**apartheid**_ – separation of the races.

(3) One of many, many, author's tributes I shall be making to Tom Sharpe's comic farces of life in apartheid South Africa – _**Riotous Assembly **_and_** Indecent Exposure. **_Lieutnant Verkramp is a certifiably insane secret policeman with too much time on his hands. Tom Sharpe was deported as an undesirable alien for continually poking fun at the lunatic system of apartheid. He then wrote the definitive comic novels, with which anyone who's read the whole of Terry Pratchett can profitably fill the wait for the next Discworld.


	3. The Patrician deliberates

_**Ankh-Morpork. August 1875.**_

Several thousand miles away in Ankh-Morpork, the ruling Patrician, Lord Samphire, sat in the Oblong Office with his closest advisors, pondering the promise of gold and diamonds. For a state that was almost broke, the arrival of the Embassy from a long-lost colony had been almost a miracle.

Pondering the two colonials, Samphire wondered how much sheer bloody-mindedness had gone into keeping Howondaland white and keeping a colony going, on the edge of nowhere, when by rights it should have subsided into ruin long ago. He saw only fierce resolution in their eyes and bearing, and this sat well with the tale they'd told.

Charles Smith-Rhodes and his wife Johanna sat in the stiff-backed chairs, facing down Samphire and his advisors. The Chief Assassin, supported by the Lords Selachii, Ramkin, Eorle, and Venturi. And the dour-looking clown? The one in the white costume and pale face with the painted-on smile masking a deep-ingrained frown? Johanna found it frankly surreal. But then, this was one more in a series of shocks that had happened, on reaching what they had been told for generations was the greatest city in the Empire. She'd spent the sea passage keenly anticipating the wonders of such a great rich city.

But… the smell. The shabbiness. The…things…. In the street. The smell. The people. _Their_ smell.

And no King any more, just a ruling Patrician advised by City dignitaries.

Johanna is twenty-six. Born to a _Boortrekkie_ family, eyebrows were raised at the announcement of her marriage into the almost-noble Smith-Rhodes family. She looks demure, innocent, with her thick, long, red-gold hair braided up about her head and pinned into coils. She looks girlish, her pale skin tanned as far as it can go, which is not very far, but liberally splattered with freckles which have run in together, like blots of brown ink. This gives her a childlike, tomboyish, demeanour. Appearances, however, deceive.

"We will further debate." Samphire says, finally. "There will be a formal reception for you tonight. A lot of people are interested in meeting our long-sundered kith and kin from Howandaland, and it offers you a chance to informally meet influential people and plead your case. Now, I'm sure you must be tired?"

A dismissal is a dismissal: Charles and Johanna bow and are escorted out. The doors close behind them.

"Kith and kin". said Eorle. "No argument. Send 'em a Regiment or two to scare the neighbours out."

"I agree!" Lord Selachii drawled. "Test of Morporkian arms, what? Allied to the native spunk of the settlers, if those two young people we just saw are an example!"

"They say one white soldier is the equivalent of ten coloured." Venturi remarked. "I think I can safely agree with Selachii here that it's our _duty _to send out the troops to their aid!"

Venturis and Selachiis agreed seldom. When they could set aside their ancient enmity and cautiously state that their guided reflections tend to suggest that quite coincidentally, of course, we are of one mind here, a wise Patrician did not discount it.

Dr Whiteface coughed. "Reports reaching me indicate that the KwaZulu may not be cowed so easily. That they are resolute on war. That only some sort of military test might resolve this situation."

Samphire nodded, understanding. As a man who has to make sense of the intelligence arising out of one mere city, he respects Dr Whiteface's formidable, Disc-wide, intelligence gathering operation. By custom, the good doctor advises the Patrician on what other states might term _foreign affairs. _Even the Assassins are guided by Whiteface's intelligence briefings: by definition, an Assassin from Ankh-Morpork did not spend a great deal of time in one place gathering useful intelligence. They were peripatetic – they went in quietly, did the contracted job quietly, and got out, often with extreme speed, afterwards. Whiteface's operators were more _permanent_ than that.

"Doctor?" Samphire invited him to speak more openly.

Whiteface nodded at the other men around the table.

"You all have a copy of the dossier. The salient facts to consider are these. The twin colonies in Rimwise Howondaland have persisted for over four hundred years. They have flourished to such an extent that they were recently able to expand into a third, _Rhodesia_, formerly _Rumbabwe_.

This was largely due to the ambition and drive of the father of the young man we just spoke to, Cecil Smith-Rhodes. But this expansion may have been unwise for several reasons. It spreads the manpower of the colonies too far and too thin. It offers another focal point for dissent between the Morporkians of the Carp Colony, and the Kerrigians of the Free State of Oranges. The people whose mannerisms, language and preoccupations earned them the nickname _Boors_ – even in Sto Kerrig, their fatherland.

"Each is scornful of the military prowess of the other even though contingents of both colonies fought well in establishing the daughter colony of Rhodesia.

"And there lies the danger, my lords. Four hundred years of resentful displaced natives forced to the margins, who see the rump of blacks left in the colonies forced down to serfhood and indentured labour, with no chance of rising or achieving prosperity under this general policy of _Apart-hood. _Which, by the way, the white colony of Hersheba, further down the coast, appears to have no need of or use for. In those four hundred years, hatred of the whites and mistrust of each other has caused them to coalesce into a hodgepodge of military states, none on its own capable of fighting the white. But now a charismatic leader has risen and fused them together."

Whiteface paused to let it sink in.

"They can raise maybe thirty thousand white men in the form of volunteer militias and what the Boors call _Kommando_. These would in war be supported by black levies of doubtful military value.

"The Kwa-Zulu can raise perhaps sixty thousand spears. Even if our entire Army were sent to Rimwise Howondaland – which I do not advise – is that sufficient to guarantee victory? With Pseudopolis challenging us, with insurrection in Hergen…"

"Again…" said the Generals, in weary unison.

"With the Hergen risings threatening the stability of Llamedos, and with Quirm feeding unrest into the Sto states in our very heartland, together with the ongoing Borogravian situation, can we even spare _any _force to an Imperial adventure? Even with the colonists able to pay in terms of diamond and coin…these _Burgerrand_?"

Field-Marshal Lord Ramkin stirred impatiently in his seat, and spoke for the first time.

"Speakin' of the dratted Stos, I don't hear Sto Kerrig making noises about "_kith and kin_" and resolvin' to send an Army out to help them get out of a shit-pit of their own makin'!"

Samphire looked sharply to the big, bluff, man at his left, knowing and respecting Ramkin's skills as a military leader. It had been Ramkin who had led Ankh-Morpork's heavy cavalry forces in the famous uphill cavalry charge at that damn place in Borogravia, the one whose name translated as _Tight-Fitting Woollen Hood With A Small Visual Aperture (__1)__. _It had been Ramkin, who after defeating a force of Imperial Zlobenian Cossacks five times his own strength, had then personally pummelled General Rust, who had been on the point of charging the Light Cavalry into the mouths of the Zlobenian ballistae and siege artillery. Rust's Hergenian despatch rider, Captain Nolan, had then been kicked back into the ranks for gross incompetence. Ramkin was not a man who trifled.

"Jeremy", he said urgently to Samphire, "We can't send 'em _nothing._ Not if you want any more diamonds and gold. But we can't send 'em everything. My advice is one brigade, with supporting tail. The Colony will undertake to feed and provision 'em, and those diamonds mean you're going to be in credit on the deal for a long time! Oh..." he looked across to Professor Mortis, speculatively, "Better add some Special Forces, too, you never know".

The Assassin nodded. Dr Whiteface raised an eyebrow. Ramkin frowned. It turned war into a bloody farce, he knew, insofar as war was ever anything more than a bloody farce, but just sometimes the other sort of Special Forces could be deucedly effective.

"And some of your...special... chaps might be useful, too" he conceded to the Doctor.

Samphire took a deep breath. At this level, the fate of nations could still be decided by the fact the Patrician had been Ramkin's fag at school. He put aside the memory of an earlier eleven-year old version of himself charged with cleaning Ramkin's filthy boots, and said

"Point taken, Geoffrey. Are we agreed that in principle, we send limited military assistance to the Colonies? Good. Drumknott?"

The Patrician's secretary stepped forwards. His family had served as clerks to the Patricians for a long time.

"Check the shipping situation. I want immediate carriage available for a full Brigade and supporting arms. Report to me." And:-

"Send in the delegation from the Kwa'Zulu".

* * *

1 In the best Discworld military tradition, it gave its name to an article of clothing...


	4. Clandestine operations

Charles Smith-Rhodes carefully picked his way through the reeking streets. Els, his bodyguard, inobtrusively falling in behind him and to the right. Els wasn't a particularly big man – in fact, he'd have weighed in as a lightweight – but something about those piggy little eyes, that flat skull, that wiry muscled figure, was the sort of body language that screamed "Thug!" at any passing thieves speculating on whether the obvious foreigner was an easy mark.

Charles wasn't completely at ease around Els – the fact that the police chief van Heerden had recommended him was suspect, as van Heerden was widely reputed to be able to tell his arse from his elbow only on the second attempt. And he was _au fait_ enough in the ways of the world to be aware that "policeman" did not automatically equate to "trustworthy": Els (1) in many ways had the profile of a career criminal who had sidled into a police uniform only because of the enhanced opportunity it gave him. Also, Johanna couldn't stand him – she maintained he had more than a touch of the tarbrush, as if miscegenation had featured prominently in his family line. Still, he was stuck with Konstabel Els, and had to make the most of his unique talents.

Still shaking his head in disbelief at the sight of the Fools' Guild building, Charles turned into Filigree Street. What was it his father's briefing notes had said…. _The gates will be open. They are always open. You may walk in but you will be challenged and asked to state your business."_

There they were, just as his father had described. He walked in. Els followed. Sure enough, two black-clad figures stepped gracefully in front of him, one holding up a hand in the universal "Halt!" signal. The effect of this was somewhat spoilt by a portly middle-aged man in a waistcoat and bowler hat, stepping out of the Porter's Lodge, brandishing a clipboard like a weapon.

"Can we help you, sir?" he inquired. Charles spoke the codeword his father had given him.

"Duitsman."

The porter touched his forelock.

"We're expecting you, mr Duitsman." He consulted his clipboard. "To see the Master at two o'clock. Go with these gentlemen here."

One of the hooded black figures spoke.

"Please follow us, sir. You may leave your monkey with Mr Maroon here."

Els looked at the dark figure as if anticipating the joy of delivering violence. Charles said, in Kerrigian: _"hier blebst, Konstabel Els", _and received something approximating a salute in return.

"Don't provoke him. He might bite." Charles said to his escort, with a smile.

"Grrrr!" Els growled.

Charles smiled, and allowed himself to be led into a surprisingly light, airy, and modern building. He thought of Johanna in this strange city and protectively worried about her. Then he let the thought drop. She is perfectly capable of looking after herself. Perfectly. He reflected that their marriage had taken little arranging: he had found himself taken with the daughter of the prominent Boor family, from the first time he had met her, taking the air in the park in Piemberg. He had expected opposition from his family, but his father had smiled and said "This fits in with my plans, my boy, so why should I object? There are too many divisions between us when we need to be one. And seeing my son married to a daughter of the Boortrekkies (2) will put out _exactly_ the correct sort of signal. Unity and strength – blending the very best of our peoples!"

And so, Johanna van der Kaffirboetje had become Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Her husband ascended the main staircase at the Assassin's Guild in Ankh-Morpork, just as their great-grand-daughter, also to be called Johanna, would do in almost a hundred years' time, as the School's teacher in nature studies (3), ecology (4), and wilderness survival (5).

Unaware of the future, Charles was shown into a large office, lined with hunting trophies, where the central feature was a large desk in between four imposing stone pillars. Its occupant came out to meet him, offering a hand.

Charles' escort discreetly withdrew, and the door closed.

"Ah, mr Smith-Rhodes" said Dr Mortis, Master of the Guild of Assassins. "I have been in contact with your father. I was expecting you."

They shook hands, Charles gratefully accepted the offer of a drink – _it's safe enough, isn't it? I'm here to arrange and pay for a contract, after all ,_and seated themselves, at opposite sides of the desk.

Charles noted a chessboard, with the pieces moving towards the endgame. White was seemingly in dire straits, having been reduced to less than half the pieces in play by Black.

"Your father asked me to investigate the feasibility of a certain overseas contract" Dr Mortis said, as matter-of-fact as if he were selling building materials or bales of cloth. "He said you would be bringing at least a retainer fee?"

Charles withdrew a small leather pouch, in which things tumbled and tinkled. He tipped some of the contents on the desktop.

"I have had these valued, both severally and as a unit". he said.

"In the current market, the stones spilt on the table alone represent perhaps seventy-five thousand dollars in uncut diamonds."

Mortis took out a jeweller's eyeglass and bent over the desk to examine the goods more closely. At length he said "I am satisfied."

"But am I satisfied? Is my father satisfied?"

"We have researched. We have had agents in the field. The answer to the question, Charles Smith-Rhodes, is a qualifed "yes". We can inhume the Paramount King of the Kwa'Zulu and his immediate heir. After which, we understand, issues of succession become less certain and more open to dynastic disagreement."

He reached over to the chessboard, and casually flicked over the black king.

"Game over."

"Good…" Charles breathed, thinking of the native threat breaking down again into a succession of squabbling tribelets, fighting like dogs in a sack for a unity none can achieve, to perhaps be defeated in detail by the militias, the kommandos, and the Ankhian regiments.

"We require a downpayment of one hundred thousand dollars. You must understand there are no guarantees and that this portion is non-refundable. The degree of difficulty and the distance involved requires us to send out a team of four assassins, as insurance against any one or more dying in the course of duty. In which case your initial payment goes direct to the Widows and Orphans Benevolent Fund".

Charles nodded. That was fair.

The potential inhumee is the King of a people preparing for war. As such he will be guarded and defended heavily. But his people have a superstition against fighting and dying by night. They believe the demon-king will inevitably collect their souls if they die in darkness. That rather suits us!"

"I'm sure!" Charles said, drily.

"But on completion, we will require a completion fee of a second hundred thousand dollars, in currency, gold, or precious stones"

"Your assassins, or the surviving members of the party, will be escorted to Piemberg by our troops and paid off there, on evidence of satisfactory completion. Then they may take ship back to Ankh-Morpork."

"Satisfactory" said the assassin. "I will pay some thought as to the chosen four Guild affiliates who may take ship to your country with the troops Lord Samphire proposes to garrison your frontier with. "

Mortis paused for a moment.

"By the way, you are aware there is a Kwa'Zulu diplomatic party currently in this city, who are prevailing upon His Lordship to remain neutral in any coming war?"

Charles sat bolt upright.

"What, HERE?"

"Should you be surprised? Diplomacy is open to all, and there are diamonds under the Kwa-Zulu land too. But my understanding is that they weill be politely refused, and sent back with a polite note to say the Ankh-Morporkian Army will be conducting training exercises in Howandaland. Any move on those troops will be taken as a provocation and an act of war. The dividing line, I believe, has been drawn at the Ulungi River. If any white man steps north of the river without leave of the Paramount King – act of war. If any KwaZulu cross south of the river without the permission of the Free State of Oranges – act of war. The Ankh-Morpork military mission will be instituted at the Ulungi to police this agreement. "

So that's it, then." Charles digested the news. Then a penny dropped.

"hold on. If I'm here to negociate for the killing…"

"Inhumation, please, sir!"

"Inhumation. Of the Paramount Chief. And his heir. And I've bought an attempt at their contract. And a KwaZulu delegation is in town. How do I know you've not taken _their_ money to honour an attempt on _me_? Or my wife?"

The Assassin's lips set in a thin prim line.

"You can't. Client confidentiality is, ah, paramount, if you'll excuse the pun."

"Very droll" Charles commented, drily.

"I can comment thus. Two embassies are in town whose nations stand on the brink of war. Both are trying to persuade their host to take a stance on the war which is beneficial to them and detrimental to their opponent. Suddenly one delegation is inhumed. Suspicion must fall on the other. The host would not be pleased they have taken their war to his city. And it helps their cause not. Knowing that, would you take out a contract on the Kwa'Zulu? I think not. And despite their dark skins, they too can reason that using us, against you, in this city, at this time, would be folly. Therefore we have what diplomacy refers to as the Klatchian Standoff. But _elsewhere,_ sir, outside the jurisdiction of Lord Samphire, is a different matter."

"So they _have_?"

"I cannot possibly comment."

Dr Mortis showed Charles to the door.

"But proceed home with caution, sir. Advise your monkey."

"Why are you hinting this at me?"

"Let us say we would accept a valid contract from almost anyone. Business is business. But the overwhelming weight of feeling in the Guild is behind your father. And by extension, behind you."

They shook hands again, and parted. Charles picked up Els at the gatehouse, where he had been indulging in a few egregiously crooked hands of poker with Maroon the porter.

Maroon and Els shook hands.

"Did you win?" Charles asked, politely.

Els grinned, revealing a selection of interestingly lopsided teeth.

"He seemed to think I wes seme sort ef rridnick, just eff the Veldt."

Charles nodded: the old game of "so how do you play this, then?"

"So I shewed him a few tricks. And I learnt a few tricks. These Morepokiens, they're _criminels_!"

Charles laughed.

"Keep your eyes open and your fists ready, Els. I was tipped off there may be trouble."

Els grinned, in anticipation. He was _always_ up for trouble.

* * *

(1) In Tom Sharpe's comic farces on apartheid South Africa (**_Indecent Exposure_** and **_Riotous Assembly_**), the South African Police Force he creates doesn't even equate to the Night Watch or early Vimes-era City Watch. It is corrupt, nasty, racist, incompetent, grovels to authority, takes bribes, routinely maltreats black people in custody, and is led by the incompetent Commandant van Heerden, a man as inept as Captain Walden without his saving graces, and from whom "Mayonnaise" Quirke could learn lessons. Konstabel Els, similarly, comes across as an Afrikaaner Nobby Nobbs with no good points whatever.

(2) Lit Trans. _**One who is being a bore about being a Trekkie. **_That is, one of the pioneering Sto Kerrigian settlers who pushed slowly and painfully into the hinterland of Howandaland in their oxen-drawn carts, so as to make a better future for themselves and their children. And who won't stop going on about the bloody Grand Trek, even four hundred years later.

(3) Big Game Hunting.

(4) The wonderful balance of nature, especially when it comes to having a plentiful supply of it to hunt and shoot; the moment of perfect balance and harmony between human and animal, for instance when the animal is finely balanced in the cross-hairs of a telescopic sight.

(5) In days to come when the Assassins' School will go co-educational, Miss Smith- Rhodes' nature trails and summer camps would be _legendary. _


	5. AnkhMorpork: not a city for the unwary

Ripping Yarn, chapter five: two encounters in Ankh-Morpork

Johanna Smith-Rhodes was taking the air in Hide Park, trying to relax in what passed for an urban green space in this foul, foetid city.

It wasn't too bad here, upwind of the river and the slums on the opposite bank, and she walked a woodlanded path in the company of two ladies from the Howondalandian party.

She had put on her best dress for the occasion, but it felt uncomfortable compared to the safari suit she usually wore, whose shorts and tunic allowed her far more room for movement, She also suspected that compared to Ankhian women's eyes, she looked somewhat gauche and rustic – she simply _must_ find out about what was fashionable here and go shopping, so that she didn't look out of place. _Charles can spare a diamond, _she thought_. Looking good at this reception must count as allowable expenses? _

She looked round at her two companions, and exchanged reassuring smiles. Winifred, her childhood nurse and confidante, whose broad cheerful face she couldn't help but love and had loved since infancy. And her old _ouma__1_, Agneta van der Kaffirboetje, the grandmother who had taught her many, many, things, looking like an old wrinkled prune but still sharp as a razor and blunt as a rhinoceros horn even at eighty.

Her reverie was cut short by three men stepping onto the path in front of them. One held out a hand, palm out, in the universal gesture for "stop".

"I'd be obliged if you passed over any jewellery, trinkets, gold or silver you may be carrying about your persons, ladies" he said, and a wicked knife appeared from nowhere.

"If we do this nice and friendly, like, you can go on your way afterwards".

"I don't know, though" said another. "That redhead looks cute. I've always had a thing for freckles."

"In that case, I don't like the look of yours much!" said the third. There was a general cackle of appreciation at the wit. The leader snapped his fingers impatiently..

Seeking to stay calm and to present the image of a frightened girl wanting to comply with her attackers, Johanna looked about her. _Damn, nobody in sight. _

Johanna reached to the large bag she was carrying on her hip.

"I'll get my purse. Please don't hurt me." she said, submissively, reaching inside and finding the comforting handle.

Then she pirouetted on her hip and screamed as the long, long, rhinoceros-hide whip lashed out and cracked. The leader of the thieves dropped his knife and screamed in agony as a second elbow suddenly formed in his knife-arm. Before the one with a thing for freckles could respond from his surprise, he clutched at a face that was suddenly a bloody ruin and screamed like a girl.

Meanwhile, from her bag, Winifred had produced the short stabbing spear of the Bantu tribe, normally a ceremonial item given to the wife of a warrior, and was lunging for the third whilst shrieking the Bantu war-cry. He tried to run, but Ouma Agnetha was determinedly belabouring him with a stick.

Johanna lashed about her with the _sjaembouk, _blessing her ouma for teaching her in all aspects of its use. Running feet came up behind.

"Ladies? Ladies? Please stop! I'll get the Watch."

A little man in a nondescript black bowler hat stopped just out of whip range. Johanna reined in her temper. It wouldn't look good to kill even one of their low-lives, she reflected. I'm still a guest here.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Isembard Skimmer, ma'am. Palace clerk. The Patrician detailed several of us to discreetly follow your party and intervene if it looked like you were coming to harm."

He looks harmless, she thought. But he wears black. Isn't that what Charles said about assassins? And keeping us from harm is only _one_ reason to have us followed.

She made small-talk with Mr Skimmer until the Watch arrived to a scene of some carnage, to patch up and remove the hapless thieves. The watchmen looked at her, still clutching the bloodied whip, with respect and wariness.

Meanwhile, across the city, a similar group of thieves has just made itself known to Charles Smith-Rhodes.

"Right. I'm not going to muck around. We've tailed you since Vortis's and we just know you're carrying diamonds. As luck would have it we trade in precious stones."

"As in I give you any diamonds I'm carrying in exchange for my life?" Charles inquired.

"Got it in one. Give." The thug held a hand out. Charles sighed, and twisted the top of his cane. The wooden sheath fell away and the swordstick moved in a silvered arc, severing the fingers on the thief's outstretched hand.

As he screamed, Els leapt forward, bellowing

_Cem ON, you besterds! Enough's es good as a bleddy feast!" __2_

and piled in with fists and cudgel.Charles left him to it – he felt Els deserved a treat – and only reined him in when it looked like legitimate self-defence was about to become murder.

Three broken thieves were left in the gutter, and Charles and Els passed unhurriedly on to their lodgings, tipping their hats to the groaning thieves.

A couple of hundred yards behind them, Palace Clerk and licenced retained Assassin Daniel Cranberry thought _I'm glad I saw that, _and carried on discreetly following, as per his orders.

1 As passing trivia, this is a Dutch (and by extension Afrikaans) word for Granny. In the Dutch translations of Discworld, Granny Weatherwax is an Ouma. Wedersmeer.

2 This is Els' warcry during a climactic fight scene in _**Riotous Assembly**_


	6. Scarlett Ramkin prepares for war

Ramkins looked down their noses at her from their frames, through the thick brown varnish of centuries….most of them were of men and all they were invariably in armour and always on horseback. And every single one of them had fought the sworn enemies of Ankh-Morpork.

In recent times this had been quite difficult and her grandfather, for example, had to lead an expedition to Howandaland in order to find some sworn enemies, although there had been an adequate supply and quite a lot of swearing by the time he had left….

(Sybil Ramkin inspects the family portrait gallery in Terry Pratchett's _**Jingo**_, pp 151-152 (Corgi PB, British edition)

-----------

Field-Marshal Sir Joshua "Scarlett" Ramkin glared out at his subordinate commanders, gathered in a conference room at the Patrician's Palace. He tried not to let it show that his heart was sinking fast, as he wondered how this sorry shower had got to be colonels and regimental commanders.

_The same way I did_, he thought_. Family money. Political influence. The ability to pay for family regiments and meet the fabulous costs of uniforming, equipping arming, provisioning and paying a thousand men. The only difference is that I'm good at it. These idiots are just playing toy soldiers in the sandpit, but with real men. Not that they'd ever think the scrapings of Morpork's gutter count as real men. They've not been programmed to. _

The Duke of Eorle. Lord Selachii. Lord Venturi. And, gods, dear gods, Lord Rust, currently without a command but eager for one. Ramkin felt that out of the four, Eorle on a good day might be able to lead a group of fighting soldiers without mucky-ducking things up too badly. Although he doubted very much, had any of the four been born lower down the social scale with neither money nor privilege behind them, that they would have made it much past Corporal. And even then, could they have marched a body of men between the barracks and the cookhouse without losing any? Ramkin doubted that. But, Gods damn it, they were all he had. The Army would have to rely, as it always did, on its middle-ranking officers, the experienced men who had long passed on from the inexperienced Rupert-dom of subalternhood, with painfully won experience as captains and majors. Promote them any further and they start losing touch… and its essential backbone, the sergeants and sergeants-major. Any soldier with experience could be promoted to corporal's rank: it took something extra, something intangible, to make sergeant.

Ramkin, looking out over the glacial eyes and the inbred chins in front of him, reflected that in the best regiments – And almost alone, he interpreted "best" as _most battle-worthy, _rather than _having social cachet - _there was practically a conspiracy between the best sergeants and the best captains and majors, to minimize any potential damage that an idiot colonel could do. And in _extreme_ cases… Ramkin looked at Ronald Rust and grinned a wolfish grin that had absolutely no humour or friendship in it. _Damn' Jeremy forced me to take Rust on board because we can't say "no" to his family money subsidisin' a Regiment… and I have got the very Regiment for him. With a bit of luck they'll lose _him_ before he loses _them_. Damn man keeps losing Regiments. It's a family trait. _

"Right, gentlemen. Briefin' on this damn' Howondaland business. I'm leadin'. Nobody's got a problem with that?"

His eyes swept the room like a siege ballista with a good clear field of fire. He heard polite mutters of the "No, not got a problem" and "you're the Field Marshal" variety.

He nodded, daring them to dissent.

"Regard this map. Howondaland. Sticks out south-west of Klatch and Hersheba like a damn sore thumb. Way back in the day, Tacticus conquered it for the Empire. We sent colonists out to exploit the rich soil and plant farms. The real reason was to ship out useless mouths and clear a bit of room back here in the Heartland. The colony prospered, by the usual means of grabbin' by brute force and bein' beastly to the blacks, the usual form. Then Empire receded. The bits of land in between us and Howondaland stopped bein' ours and were retaken by the damn Klatchians. Only the jungle belt stopped 'em from pushing south and clearing out Howondaland. That, and the _other _natives down in those parts."

Ramkin paused, and resumed.

"Against all the odds, our colony has thrived and prospered." Ramkin slapped the map with his field-marshal's baton. "_Three_ colonies, in fact. Bottom and left, the Carp Colony, capital Zabingo, settled largely by Morporkians. Top and centre, this new state they started settling a year or two ago, Rhodesia. Thus givin' its former people, the Matabele, room to feel annoyed and chuck their spears in with other disaffected natives. Bottom and right, the Free State of Oranges, largely settled by Sto Kerrigians. Note its border, here, is the line of the river Ulungi. On the _other _side of that line, the Free Confederated Tribes of the Kwa'Zulu. Get on with the Kerrigians about as well as dwarves with trolls. Further north, we have a loose confederation of red-skinned nomadic natives who are just beginning to have their skirmishes with the Howondalandian whites, though they and the Kwa'Zulu leave each other well alone. Related to the Tezumen **(1),** apparently. We've seen a few make it to Ankh-Morpork in the last few years **(2).** So we don't know if the Redskins will stay neutral, not if our _kith and kin_ have made first contact with 'em, and left 'em with bad feelin's. "

"What does it matter if a hundred thousand _natives_ choose to declare war on us? They're only natives!" Rust exclaimed. Fighting down an urge to grab him by the lapels and bounce his head off a handy wall, Ramkin patiently explained:

"It matters a damn lot if there are a hundred thousand of them and only ten thousand of us. And a native spear kills you as thoroughly as a civilized crossbow bolt!"

"I have it on the best of authorities that one white soldier is worth _ten_ black natives!" Rust continued, absolutely sure of his own rightness. He carried on digging a hole for himself with "Ten thousand of our trained men up against a hundred thousand native rabble. By the maths, that makes us equal!"

Ramkin, dismissing (with some effort) the vision of Rust's head bouncing repeatedly off the wall in a shower of shattered plaster, said, as patiently and slowly as he could

"Ronald. Have you _seen_ the quality of an average recruit to our armies? Thanks largely to the classic Ankh-Morporkian diet, you are lucky if the man is five-foot-eight, fourteen pounds underweight, and with half his own teeth. Oh, the Army builds 'em up – given they live long enough – and the more forward-thinking Regiments provide free dentistry as well as a bone-sawin' quack – and they're tough. They have to be to survive eighteen years upbringin' in a Morpork gutter."

"What? My tenants and employees in my factories have a high standard of living! " exploded Venturi.

"Yes. They get fed just enough to work an eighteen hour day that just about covers the rent – paid to you, as I recall – leaving a few pennies surplus for fripperies like raisin' children! I recall you sayin' that is adequate and generous for _those sort of people_."

Ramkin glared at his subordinates.

"Charles, Ronald. Were you not there when Samphire met with the embassy from the Kwa'Zulu? Did you not pay a possible enemy the courtesy of a once-over to check out his potential? Don't know where _your_ eyes were lookin' – well, I can guess – but what _I_ saw were six-foot tall guardsmen. Well-nourished, physically fit, all muscle, got all their own teeth. If a hundred thousand of them charge you, you'd better hope and pray your trained men can get off ten aimed crossbow bolts before the eleventh steps up to stick one of those nasty-lookin' spears in you. Big fellas like that, it won't be a tickle!"

The subordinate commanders fell silent. They'd been sizing up at least _part_ of the Kwa'Zulu delegation, alright. Lady Selachii, Lady Venturii and the Duchess of Eorle had also noticed their husbands sizing up the enemy, and had duly had words about it later.

For Paramount Prince N'Bekoming of the Kwa'Zulu had also brought with him a platoon of guardswomen, who had caused something of a stir in the City. Six foot tall, statuesque, wielding assegais they carried with ease and assurance, and like the men, dressed only in animal-skin loin cloths with feathers and plumes on head, ankles and wrists.

This minimal attitude to dress had caused some stir in the city. Carts had crashed, men had fallen off ladders, people put off their stride, diplomacy derailed, by twenty or thirty half-naked six foot tall black-skinned women, of average age eighteen to thirty.

_I'm sure that cunnin' black fox planned this, _Ramkin had thought. Via Lady Ramkin, he had sent a diplomatic suggestion out that N'Bekoming's guard soldiers must be feeling the cold of a more temperate northerly climate. Soldier to soldier, and not wishing to see brothers-in-arms set to discomfort, he was offering the gift of large, warm, military uniform tunics as a mark of his personal esteem for the damn' fine looking Kwa'Zulu warriors. And your lads and women are barefoot, which is _not_ advisable in this city. Can I also offer boots?

N'Bekoming had given Scarlett Ramkin a long appraising look, and said yes, he would accept the offer in the spirit of comradeship intended. "But my people are not used to boots, my lord. We go barefoot on Mother Savannah from birth and she nourishes us through our feet".

"The only thing you'll pick up from the ground of Mother Morporkia is twenty different kinds of contagious disease", Ramkin had replied. "You'd better get _something_ on your feet".

Lady Ramkin had coughed discreetly and said "Sandals, dear? They're good for people used to bare feet. Like those housemaids we got from Hergen. I started them off on sandals and worked up to enclosed shoes when they were ready for them."

Lady Ramkin then sent a man to Scropes' for seventy pairs of large sandals, to be put on the Ramkin account.

Seeing the sense of this, N'Bekoming had made a respectful salute to the Ramkins, and courteously said that their hospitality would not be forgotten. "If when all this is sorted out by men of sense and rationality, you ever come to Howondaland, you have the protection of my kraal!"

And then, a day or two later, men of sense and rationality spoiled everything.

Patrician Samphire delivered his final pronunciation. Having heard both embassies and deliberated over the issues, his judgment was that the River Ulungi be viewed as the absolute border between the lands of the Kwa'Zulu and the lands of the _Oranjes Vriestaadt._ A substantial military contingent was to be sent by Ankh-Morpork to enforce the borderline on both parties so that only those could cross who had appropriate accreditation to do so. He wholly appreciated the informal position that any unwelcome incursion across the river, either by Kwa'Zulu or Boor, would be an act of war. Which is why he, Patrician Samphire, was sending an expeditionary force to Rimwards Howondaland, to be an active deterrent to acts of war perpetrated by either side.

Samphire also noted that the costs of transporting, housing and provisioning this force were to be met by the legally constituted Government of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland. To avoid misunderstanding, this force has not been _bought_ by the URH and will remain in full command of a trusted Ankh-Morporkian senior officer. Field-Marshal Ramkin is proposed for this delicate post, as much diplomatic as it is military. Junior commanders will be selected from the pool of, ah, _talent_, available. Arrangements will be made for speedy and secure communication with Ankh-Morpork. It is emphasized that the Army is on a _peacekeeping mission_ and _rules of engagement_ will apply.

Ramkin looked over to the smaller and less showy White Howandalandian delegation, especially the young man and his strikin' red-haired wife who seemed to be its spokespeople. Yes, they're looking very happy. Got what they wanted. Can't say that for the blacks, unfortunately. Even though this N'Bekoming chap seems pretty decent. Can't visualize _him_ cookin' and eatin' white infants nor ravishin' their mothers. Good propaganda touch, though, on the white side, to tell those stories!

But that had been a couple of nights before, at the Palace reception for both embassies…

Selachii, Eorle, Rust and Venturi, who had not been invited to sit, stood uneasily and regarded their commander-in-chief, who nodded and said:

"We're waitin' for the last contingent from Hergen, who are late arrivin'. If it's that useless bugger Purdeigh who's holdin' us up, I'm havin' his lights on an assegai! Then we embark, and it's eight week's sailin' with a good wind. We need to make haste, as the damn' Kwa'Zulu have already left for home, courtesy of our Klatchian friends bein' helpful and providin' them with a ship, and then an escorted boat down the Tsort into the heart of the continent. With good friends like that, they'll be home inside a month! Anyway. YOU…" Ramkin pointed, taking them all in, "will keep your men combat-ready and fed and fit while aboard ship. No sub-standard rations like you always seem to want to get away with, no cabbage that walks away from the plate, no salt meat full of its own kind of life and vitality, do I make myself clear? You people always seem to manage lookin' after the horses but not havin' any men fit to ride 'em, and that stops HERE. I don't want a thousand fit mounts and a thousand sick pukin' cavalrymen arrivin' in Zlabingo, y'hear?

"And WHEN we arrive, I want hearts-and-minds stuff. Fly the flag. Gold medals for good behaviour, as these are our…" Ramkin's lip turned, contemptuously "_kith and kin_. After Zlabingo, we march to our battle stations.

"Bernard. YOUR regiment gets the northern station. Here, in Rhodesia. You will be brigaded with a Morporkian militia, a Kerrigian _kommando **(**__**3)**__ – _damn silly name for a military unit, that, can't see it catchin' on. A _kommando_ of fighting soldiers…"

Ramkin paused, said "huh." and continued. "You will also have some supporting arms in your rear echelon, and an impi of loyal black soldiers. Although Gods know why they're loyal, the damn whites treat 'em like dirt. This _apartheid_ strikes me as a damn' silly idea to base a society on, but there you go, we're soldiers not politicians."_ Keeps Venturi and Selachii well away from each other too, which marginally adds to Army efficency. _

"Charles. Eorle. You march out to the Ulungi with the bulk of the expeditionary force. HERE is the key point. The religious mission station at Lawkes' Drain **(4).** It covers practically the only point where the river becomes shallow enough for an army to ford, and the most likely route for Kwa'Zulu to send a whole army. Your men will deter any incursion here. Charles, your cavalry will scout and patrol the length of the River and actively deter crossings. I don't need to remind you what Samphire said about _rules of engagement_. You do not fire unless you are fired upon; you do not cross the river to the Kwa'Zulu side as that is an act of war. Strangely enough, gentlemen, we are a _peacekeepin' force_. We are here to _prevent_ a war startin'. I know it goes against your deeper-grained instincts, but we are not here to start a war. Anyone who can't grasp that stays here in Ankh."

"What religion, sir? At Lawkes' Drift"

"Bloody Omnian, I think. Sorry, Charles, we'll just have to put up with 'em. I like it no more than you do. Missionaries mucking about with me men's heads!"

Ramkin scoured them with his eyes again.

"No objection? Good. Then dismissed, see to your Regiments! Not you, Rust, a word in private, if you please."

Ramkin waited for the door to close, then took a deep breath.

"I didn't want you on this mission, Ronald. No doubt you don't want to be under my command. The feelin's mutual. But Lord Samphire insisted I take you, even though you have this distressin' habit of losin' whole regiments. You're currently without a command? Can't think why.."

"Sir, there are two more Rust regiments in formation at the moment. Raised and supported by Rust family money."

"Can't think why anyone 'd want to join 'em. Not with your track record"

Rust reddened at the slur.

"Poverty, unemployment, the workhouse… men may be feckless and workshy but they'll do _anything_ to avoid real penury. I take trash from the gutter and turn them into soldiers!"

"Yes. Sometimes for very short periods of enlistment. Don't think I haven't noticed! Anyway. Rust. I'm givin' you the 35th Llamedosian. **(5)** You are not to lose them. Get them needlessly slaughtered. Throw them away like tin soldiers in a sandbox. They are one of the best fightin' regiments I've got! I also don't want to give the Llamedosian nationalists more ammo than they've got – you know what they say, Ankh-Morpork will fight to the last Llamedosian, the last Sto Helitian, the last Hergenian… lose these men, Rust, don't bother comin' back. Y'hear me? Now SEE TO YOUR COMMAND, and mind what I said about sub-standard rations! I'd rather have less gold braid on their tunics and more square meals in their bellies, d'y'hear?"

Ramkin cleared Rust from his office by sheer lung-power.

He had a strong sense of tragedy ahead, and nothing he could do about it…. maybe, at fifty-seven, he was gettin' too old for this.

He stood up. He had other things to organise. He'd need to ask that young couple a few things about their country, things his army might need to take into account. Then go and see that blasted little weasel Catterail about an emergency job.

* * *

**(1)** The Aztec-like civilization in _**Eric,**_ described as pioneer heart surgeons with not an Igor among them.

**(2)** Red Indians on the Disc? And specifically described as resident in Howondaland. See _**Reaper Man**_ and read what One-Man-Bucket says about his ethnicity. Trying to square this with Howondaland otherwise being Discworld's Africa. Or in this case _Sed Efrrrika_

**(3)** The Afrikaaner word for a military formation was of course taken up by the semi-admiring British, who now raise Royal Marine Commandos…

**(4)** Referenced in the booklet accompanying the _**Discworlde Mappe, **_a a battleground possibly in Howondaland where the 35th Llamedosian Foot won lasting military fame. The resemblance to Rorke's Drift in the Zulu war was part of the inspiration of this story…

**(5)** See footnote **(4).** The booklet with the Mappe also tells us a Rust commanded the 35th at this battle but gives no further detail. I'm providing what I hope is plausible backstory.


	7. Hergen, Bloody Hergen

_**September 1875. Northern Hergen.**_

**Hergen. **A beautiful country, soft and green and bucolic. A man could settle here, and part of this country's tragedy is that many have, emigrating from Ankh-Morpork in the days of high Empire to supplant and displace the resentful natives, and to replace them with what past Kings and Patricians of Ankh hoped would be a more_ loyal_ population. To make way for this _planted_ population, a particularly inventive sadist who assumed the Patricianship devised _transportation. _Native Hergenian seditionists and dissenters and dangers to the civil order were forced into old ships, barely seaworthy, which were towed to within sight of the eternal anticyclone surrounding the distant continent of Fourecks, and pointed at the shore. In those days before the Great Wet, XXXX sucked things into itself voraciously, but nothing escaped: making it the perfect prison and exile colony for Ankh-Morpork. _Plantation_ and _Transportation_: two of the historic injustices felt by the natives of Hergen. Four or five hundred years on, a war still rumbles in this distant land, making a place of great natural beauty into a list of names capable of making old Morporkian soldiers blanch and swear. _Every _regiment has done at least one tour of duty here, facing hate, resentment, crossbow bolts out of the dark, bringing swift death, and now the new innovation of _cart bombs, _an otherwise innocent looking farm cart, but discovered too late to be carrying several kegs of Alchemist's Black Powder number One and a short burning fuse. One such devastating bomb has recently killed the commanding officer, second-in-command and thirty men of the 35th Llamedosians **(1),** who nevertheless still persist in patrolling and fighting where the opportunity presents itself…

The patrol spread out automatically, half the section covering the cardinal points and keeping guard whilst the other half fell out for a smoke-break. The early morning quiet of the cemetery was broken only by the first birdsong and the grateful sound of striking matches followed by inhalations.

Corporal Huw Hughes knew he was breaking regulations by allowing the men to smoke during an active patrol, but his corporal's senses were telling him nothing was threatening. Besides, the Hergenian Republican Army were a bunch of lazy specimens who liked to drink all night and sleep in late in the morning: he knew from experience the greatest threats happened later in the day, in the afternoons and evenings. And out here on the Island, they could see for a long way in all directions to check if anyone was tailing them, which is why he'd bought the patrol out here for an illicit morning tab. They could see Sergeant Dickens from a thousand yards away, for one thing, which would save his stripes from summary removal.

It was also, he reflected, quite pretty: the Island, so-called, was a spit of land running out some way into the Great Lake, connected to the mainland by a short narrow isthmus. Ever since time began, it seemed, there had been a cemetery here. Even before the new religions had arrived and their respective adherents had contributed to splitting Hergen into two warring tribes, people had been buried here under older, Druidic, auspices. The old statues said as much, and they were attracting attention from soldiers who had developed a sudden interest in archaeology.

"_Duw, _Owen, that must be a good two feet long, that!"

The old statues were carved in a very unmistakeably male semblance. It seemed as if the sculptor, several thousand years ago, had wanted to go out of his way to attribute a certain fundamental male-ness to his creation. **(2)**

"Ach, that's your old-time Druidism, see? We used to worship things like that in Llamedos, before the newer Druids came along."

"I'm not surprised, mun! Show my missus one that big and she'd be worshipping it! Down by yere on her knees she'd be, in front of that statue like coal off a shovel!."

"Oggham runes, too" mused Crossbowman Idril "Plant-Life" Evans. He was so named because the general opinion in the 35th was that Evans could be mentally outclassed by the average clump of grass. Corporal Hughes had his own opinion: the big steady farm-boy from out west could sometimes arrive at some very shrewd conclusions, it was just that walking behind a plough hadn't exactly been conducive to speed of thought. _Accuracy_ of thought, _economy_ of thought, yes: _speed_ of thought, no.

"So you can read them, then, Plant-Life boy?" Denzil Williams said, grinning and nudging Thirty-Three Williams.

"That I can" relied the farm boy. "They read _I have got a very big tonker, me. Be afraid."_ **(3)**

"What? Of a two-foot tonker?"

"Well, if he was like that base depot sergeant back home, you know, Queenie Williams, and he came up behind of you with _that_ in his hand, you'd be scared, wouldn't you?"

There was general laughter. Corporal Hughes studied the Great Lake, idyllic, reflecting mercurial silver in the flat morning calm. _Your soul would have to be dead not to appreciate natural beauty like this, _he thought. _The Hergenians don't know what they've got to be thankful for. _

Then he saw the light flashes. Helioscope. He read the signal and ordered

"Fall in! We're being recalled! Patrol aborted!"

The men fell into patrol mode, two loose columns of four, spaced evenly down each side of the road, and began the trek back to barracks.

* * *

Meanwhile, a mile or two away, anotrher Llamedosian patrol is moving, quietly and carefully, through a town. The sergeant leading it is aproaching fifty, his hair and his masterpiece of a moustache greying. Any sergeant reaching his fifties has to be an old fox: Sergeant Dickins was no exception. Abruptly, he stopped, raising a hand, and listened, Nodding, he moved down the line and detailed four men to move off down a parallel side street. And then advanced the remnant of the patrol to block the alley ahead, where they saw two local yobbos caught red-handed painting slogans on a wall. They turned and tried to run, only to meet the other half of the patrol turning a corner and blocking their escape route.

Dickins stepped forward and critically inspected the graffiti.

"What's all this, then?" he inquired, conversationally.

"We is just coming in off a long patrol, like, and we is looking forward to a cup of tea and a slice at the canteen, and we finds you standing by yere with paintbrushes in your hand defacing a wall, and looking very guilty indeed!"

Dickens tut-tutted, reproachfully.

"And just where we can see it from our barracks, too. Very naughty, boys, very naughty. Now what is this that you has written… _Pobol Llymdost heb preis_? "Stinking people cost nothing?"

Dickens grasped the nearest juvenile ear and twisted.

"Now what did you _think_ you was writing on this wall?"

"Aaaargh… it means "Free people of Llamedos!""

"No it bloody well doesn't, boyo. I think you needs a lesson in basic conversational Llamedosian! Now take this word _pobol_, meaning _people_ . About the only word you has got right yere. But _llymdost_? What's that supposed to mean, then"

"Aaaaaargh… it says Llamedos… sir… SERGEANT!"

Dickens tutted again. "I don't know, what are they teaching the kids in school these days… your spelling is ATROCIOUS, boyo. The word _llymdos_t means _smelly_ or _pungent_, although it can have a poetic meaning of sad, as in maudlin-sad. What it does NOT mean is _Llamedos_, as in the country from which we all happen to hail. You're insulting my Llamedosian soul here, boyo. Now take this yere brush and paint. _Pobol_, good, no errors. L-L-A-M-E-D-O-S. But this only means _People the country which is called Llamedos. _Don't make sense. You need to make it a collective plural noun denoting the people and to do that you add…." Dickens twisted the ear again.

"Y POBOL LLAMEDOSIANIAU!"

"Almost correct, boyo. _Pobol_ is a noun of the feminine gender, which means when you pair it to the definite article _Y_, it undergoes? Come on, come on!"

"Aaaaargh! It undergoes nasal mutation which causes the initial letter of the feminine noun to mutate, in this case from a "p" to a "b".aaaaRGGGH!." it poured out as a torrential rush.

"Which makes?"

"Y BOBOL LLAMEDOSIANIAU!"

"Now this little abortion here, the _heb preis_.Was you trying for the abstract political context of _freedom_, by any chance? Just nod. Good. Because that's _Rhydd._ And what yew painted up meant "free" as in costing nothing, as in financially very cheap. _Heb preis_, without price, see.

"So we've got as far as?"

"Y BOBOL RHYDD LLAMEDOSIANIAU!"

A little more casual brutality ascertained that the correct spelling for the rest of the slogan would be

"PAM ARFODIWCH CHI A'M ANKH-MORPORK?", and Dickens grinned, generously.

"This is your lucky day!" he said, to the hapless house-painters.

"Aren't you glad you met me? You learns a bit of Llamedosian and you can now PAINT IT FIFTY TIMES ON THIS YERE WALL or I'll come back and slice your _gronellau _off. _Yn deall? O'r gorau!" _Dickens scowled, horribly.** (4)**

They set to, watched by grinning Llamedosian soldiery.

Geraint Jones nudged Twenty-Three Williams in the ribs.

"Free people of Llamedos. Why are you fighting for Ankh-Morpork?" he said, quoting the slogan.

"Search me" Twenty-Three replied. Sergeant Dickens, with the super-sensitive hearing that comes with a third stripe, marched over.

"Jones, Williams! On your feet! Stand at attention! You is fighting for Ankh-Morpork because you took its shilling! _I_ took its shilling! If there were a Prince of Llamedos still, we'd be wearing his feathers! When you see ME deserting then YOU may take that as implicit permission to desert the colours – BUT NOT BEFORE! Is that CLEAR?"

Dickens might have said more, but horses' hooves were drawing closer. Reflexively, several crossbows pointed to the sound.

"Sergeant Dickens?"

It was Lieutenant Rhodri-Protheroe, one of the younger officers.

"Ah. Sergeant Dickins. All men of the Thirty-Fifth are recalled to barracks. We're leaving this place. New posting.."

He was drowned out in a din of cheers.

"Mr Purdey sent me out to find you. Apparently we take ship to Ankh, our new Regimental Colonel takes command, and we're being posted on. What's _this_?."

"Sir. Aversion therapy, SIR! When I'm done with them they'll never want to graffiti another wall as long as they live, SIR!"

The young lieutenant, barely nineteen, looked doubtful, but knew better than to argue with an old sergeant.

"Fall 'em in, mr Dickens." he said.

The men fell in; the wall painters, forgotten, took great care to wait till the marching footsteps died away, then looked at each other and legged it in the opposite direction.

"Bet you it's bloody Borogravia!" Twenty-Three said to Jones.

"No kidding? Not nearly nasty enough. I think Zlobenia. Winters to freeze the _gronellau_ off a brass _mwnci_."

"You should never have rode out on your own, sir. Man on a horse, in an infantry regiment, has to be an officer. In the eyes of Heera, you scores more points for getting an officer!" Dickins remarked, gently but unmistakeably rebuking the young officer.

"Really, sergeant? Nobody told me that. But I see your point."

Rhodri-Protheroe swung himself out of the saddle and said, amiably,

"It's a lovely day. I think I'll walk with you. If you could be so kind as to detail a man to lead my horse? He can hang his pack over the saddle-bow to make it lighter for him, if he wishes."

"Thirty-Nine Williams? You has got a chance to rest your flat feet, boy. Fall out and do as your officer desires!"

They walked back to the barracks, noting how the wall-paintings and murals changed in style and intent as they did so. Rather than the flag of the Hergenian Republic, the constellation of Woodbine the Tarry Slough picked out in gold on a green background **(5),** this part of town flew the Morporkian flag, and gable end after gable end was painted with a variation on a theme of "Stoneface" Vimes on his white horse, revered here as the man who, after assuming leadership in Ankh-Morpork, led an expedition to put down sedition in Hergen and to make it safe for right-thinking Empire Loyalists to live in. For broadly similar reasons, the name of Vimes was loathed and reviled further down the same street by the people who had been on the receiving end of Ankh's pacification of Hergen. **(6)**

"All very unfair, sergeant" Rhodri-Protheroe remarked. "Stoneface Vimes only got to Hergen right at the very end, as he was delayed by illness and laid up for six weeks. He sent Lord Rust in to lead the army, and of course Rust viewed any sort of protest on behalf of the Hergenian natives as being despicable treason. Before Vimes could put a stop to it, the then Lord Rust **(7)** had burnt five Hergenian towns to the ground and slaughtered all their inhabitants as rebels against the Crown. But they still blame it on Vimes."

"You're a learned man, sir?" Dickins asked.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that! But when I was studying at the Sto Lat Military Academy, I realised I'd be posted here sooner or later, and so took the trouble to read up all I could on the background to the situation."

_Not just a new Rupert. He has to be an intellectual as well. Duw. _

Dickins stayed diplomatic.

"I find all we need to know, sir is that on the Republican or Green side, you has the Heera. That is, the Hergenian Republican Army, HRA or _Heera_ for short. You also has the Hergenian National Liberation Army, the HNLA or _Hinla. _Now both of them can't decide whether it's Ankh-Morpork or the _other_ lot that they hates the most, and we've been able to play that to advantage a few times.

"And on this, the Orange, side of town, you has the Hergen Volunteer Force, the Volunteer Farce we calls 'em, can't march straight or in step, wears army cast-offs, look idle and scruffy, but _dangerous_ when they gets hold of weapons. And at any one time about ninety splinter groups."

Dickins shook his head despairingly. "And we stands in the middle wearing our nice red tunics trying to keep the natives apart. And then both lots get angry we're keeping them apart, and they shoots at _us_."

"Well, we won't be here much longer, Sergeant. We march to Kingstown **(8)** tomorrow, and take ship back to Ankh-Morpork. Apparently we're re-equipping and taking on a new draft of recruits to replace our recent losses, as well as a new Commanding Officer. After that, well, it's destination top secret, I'm afraid."

And the marching men sang their way back to barracks, exultant at the thought of leaving the Hell of Hergen, bloody Hergen.

* * *

1 This happened to the Parachute Regiment at Warrenpoint, County Down, on 27/8/77

2 Based on the votive statues at Boa Island, County Fermanagh, which are believed to be 3,000 years old and meant to guard the doors between life and death. They now form part of the cemetery wall on the Island and the author felt privileged to view them. Even if it **was** in less-than-ideal circumstances. (and yes, an illicit smoke did happen)

3 In just over a hundred years' time, Miss Alice Band, archaeology teacher at the Assassins' School in Ankh-Morpork, would lead some of her girls on a field-trip here. General scholarly opinion among the young Assassins would be _"Nothing changes. Typical male. Why can't they find something _**important**_ to boast about?" _

4 OK. It's out of Python's _**Life of Brian**_. I know. But goo enough and mad enough to place in a Discworld context.

5 The original flag of the Irish Republic was the constellation of the Starry Plough (the Big Dipper, Odin's Wain, et c) in gold on a green background. Only later was it changed to the green, white and orange tricolour, symbolising the peaceful co-existence, equality and complete inclusion of both kinds of Irish in the same state.

6 The Roundworld referent to Stoneface Vimes is of course Oliver Cromwell, who famously executed a King, created a Republic, and then pacified seven kinds out of Ireland when the country rose in revolt. However, the white horse belongs to King William of Orange, another expatriot Dutchman who exported Dutch ferocity and bloody-mindedness, as well as a concept not unlike Apartheid, to Ireland.

7 In our world, it was Cromwell who ordered _atrocitas_ in several rebellious Irish cities. But no Vimes would ever be a mass-murderer on the Discworld - it goes against type. But a Rust, in his callous unfeeling way...

8 Kingstown, County Cork, became _Cobh_ after declaration of an Irish Republic


	8. Logistics

_**Ripping Yarn – 8 – "Logistics"**_

Corporal Huw Hughes surveyed the four men he'd been detailed to bring with him, dressed in full field order, to ensure that nothing was out of place and nothing could be adversely commented upon. His practiced eye looked over Thirty-Three Williams, Twenty-Nine Williams, Ialto Jones, and Povey.

"Collar flash, Jonesey!" he rebuked, mildly, straightening out the slightly tangled black ribbons depending from the back of Jones' collar. "Regimental distinction, that is!" **(1) **Moving on, he found fault with the angle of Twenty-Nine's shako, and restored it, with a subdued oath.

"Best behaviour now, boys" he whispered, as Sergeant Dickins appeared in the lighted doorway and gave them the nod. Hughes straightened himself.

"Squad… attention! Right – turn! By the front, quick march!"

Hughes marched his men into a well-furnished parlour, where several people were waiting to inspect them. He halted them, crashed to attention, and threw up the best salute he could muster. Captain Purdey winked at him, while Field-Marshal Ramkin returned the salute with an easy gesture. Lady Ramkin, a lady who could kindly be described as _well-upholstered_, looked on with interest. He didn't recognise the young couple with them, a keen-looking gentleman of slightly foreign appearance, and a freckled girl with highly piled red hair, who Hughes recognised as _wife or lady friend. Probably wife. _

Sergeant Dickins made up the party, standing apart from the rest.

"Corporal Hughes and four men of the 35th, _sir_!" Dickins reported, with a salute.

"Stand at ease, men." Ramkin said. "I'm goin' to have to ask you to put up with what's about to happen. It might well turn out to be crucial for your next posting." He turned to the civilian couple. "Charles, Johanna, I need to ask your advice here. What you are looking at is standard battle-dress for the Ankh-Morporkian soldier, but it occurs to me that it's designed – if you could call it that – for the more temperate weather you get in the central continent. It might not work as well in… where these chaps are goin'. Could you both oblige me by takin' a close look and commenting frankly where you see room for change and improvement?"

Hughes recalled the red-haired girl moving in close enough for him to smell her perfume. She smiled at him and said "Would you permit me to touch, Corporal?" in a strangely accented Morporkian. He nodded, and she took a pinch of his tunic, then his trousers, between finger and thumb. She frowned.

"This is a _verry_ heavy woollen meteriel, Lord Remkin. It's perheps designed to keep the body werrm in a cold climate, such as I hear ebout Zlobenia in winter. It will not do! In the werm and the heat of Ho…of my country, this poor man will cook! Especially with this tightly festened collar. They must wear something lighter! Something with more room for movement!"

Meanwhile, Charles was looking at other aspects of the uniform.

"This… headgear. What do you call it?" he asked, indicating the stovepipe-like military heat.

"A shako, sir"

"It's wholly impractical, Sir Joshua. It's black, for one thing, so the heat of the sun will be absorbed and channelled down into the man's head. There's no brim, so it offers no protection from the sun. You need something different."

Charles studied further, a critical expression on his face.

"The colour is wrong for the veldt" he said. "Sir Joshua, the enemy these men potentially face still largely believes in the virtues of hand-to-hand combat as between men. But lately, we have been seeing a greater number of crossbows in their hands. This is a new weapon for them, and at present their prowess is not great. But sooner or later they will learn to use them effectively. Especially since our intelligence tells us Klatchian , ah, "_military advisors_", have been seen in their lands."

"Now I hadn't heard that" Sir Joshua Ramkin said, thoughtfully. "Something new to consider, there!"

Charles Smith-Rhodes continued.

"I don't like these bright white cross-belts over a scarlet tunic. From the point of view of a skilled crossbowman or archer, you're sending your men into battle with a great big white cross just over their hearts. To me, this uniform says "target".

Ramkin nodded. "I've been havin' a few thoughts in that direction meself. A shame the other regimental commanders won't wear it. They think the scarlet is a martial colour that focuses the mens' fightin' skills. They think any other colour would sap the men's will to fight. And they also think perfectly blancoed webbin' is good for discipline and parade-ground turn-out. And they pay for their mens' uniforms, so I can't order them to change, unfortunately."

He paused.

"I got my own three family regiments out of scarlet a _long _time ago. The other Lords said I was daft."

He indicated a full-length portrait on the wall, of himself in field uniform.

"I wanted a new kind of soldier, d'y'see. I put them in green to blend better with their surroundings. Pouches and packs in dark leather. Webbin' in black. Trained them to get up close, inobtrusively, and mix it hand-to-hand. The foliage-green uniform helps a lot! **(2)** Shame they're out in the line in Zlobenia at the moment and can't be spared, or I'd have picked them for this expedition."

Charles nodded.

"I can see your thinking and mine are together on this, Sir Joshua" he said. He scrutinised the portrait. "That green is a good start." he said "And no doubt suited to spring or summer operations on this continent. But in my country, the ground conditions are somewhat different, especially in the area you will be called on to operate in. There, the ground is largely red-brown earth with only sporadic plant growth. I would consider that the base colour of the uniform should be a red-brown, like the terracotta of a plant-pot, but somewhat faded. The natives have a word for that sort of brown, which is _khaki._ And as my wife so rightly noticed, the heat in my country is such that the basic material should be lighter and thinner, for the comfort of the wearer. Also, I would recommend that the webbing and cross-belts be made duller and less conspicuous, perhaps also of a unbleached linen, or darker. And you _must_ have a better form of headwear. Men with inadequate head coverings will fall with heat exhaustion under our sun."

"What d'you recommend, then?"

Something enclosing the entire head, with a brim projecting out over the shoulders. In a white or pale cover to better reflect the sun's heat."

Captain Purdey looked thoughtful. Then he said "Sir, I may have just the thing. Out in Hergen, we realised the shako was not practical for riot-control operations because it kept getting knocked off. Too top-heavy, and it offered no protection against missiles. **(3)** Colonel Pardoe-Roberts paid to kit everyone out with a helmet of our own devising. I've got one in my kit upstairs."

"Fetch it, then" Ramkin invited him. The Captain left the room.

Ramkin grinned at his guests.

"Looks like we're revisin' and redesignin' an entire uniform in fourteen days flat, then!"

"We've got that much time before we sail." agreed Charles Smith-Rhodes. "But is it enough time to get your army re- uniformed?"

Ramkin clapped him on the shoulder. "This is Ankh-Morpork!" he said, jovially. "There may be a lot wrong with this place, but when it comes to ingenuity and getting' things done, there's none better! Ah, Mr Purdey. So this is the helmet, I see?"

It was shaped like a distorted tortoise, one that had been perhaps blown up with a bicycle pump. From another angle, it had the disconcertingly organic curves of a large female breast. It also had a brim which curved out over the shoulders.

"Hmmm" said Ramkin, turning it over to note the makers' label inside. "We can do something with this. Heavy, but we won't need the metal plates sewn inside. Mr Smith-Rhodes?"

"Let me see what it looks like on. Soldier, would you? Thank you."

On a wearer's head, the thing looked less strange: the curves and lines flowed, and looked somehow right. And it covered the whole head and part of the shoulders beneath.

"A lightweight version" said Johanna. "In white, or a pale colour. It would work!"

"But could your industry make sufficient?" Charles asked.

"I don't know. But that's what we can go and find out. Is that everything, for now? Thank you, gentlemen. You may fall out. My butler will lead you to the servants' dining room, where a meal and a few beers have been laid on for you. Thank you for your assistance, lead 'em off, Corporal, and if you've made any shrewd guesses as to where you're going to be posted, kindly keep 'em to yourselves."

Ramkin added, "Not you, Sergeant Dickens. I need a quick word, for your ears only."

He waited until Hughes and the section had left the room, then closed the door.

"How long have we known each other, Mr Dickens?" the Field-Marshal asked.

"Thirty years or so, sir" the sergeant replied. There was an easy mutual respect between them, born of long service. Ramkin was glad of this: it made some things easier. He took a deep breath.

"I believe mr Purdey here, with your assistance as senior Sergeant, took command of the 35th after the unfortunate death of Colonel Pardoe-Roberts and Major Richards. I also hear you did damn' well at it, too, and kept the Regiment together till you were recalled from Hergen. I'm sorry, Rupert. I can't make you up to full Major yet as you're still a little bit too young. But lead your men as well in Howondaland as you did in Hergen and you'll at least be a Major by the end. That's a promise. But there's another tricky diplomatic sort of thing I want you both to do for me."

Ramkin took a deep breath.

"I'm very, very, sorry to have to do this to you, but your new commanding colonel is Ronald Rust."

The Sergeant and the Captain both took deep disbelieving breaths.

"Believe me, if I'd had the free choice, I'd have made Rust colonel in charge of field latrines, but the damn Palace forced him on me. And you know what this means for you. I want you both to steer him, guide and advise him, and if he won't be advised, do what you can to soften or deflect any totally absurd order he gives. You're good at this, Mr Dickens, you've served under some… rather new and inexperienced…. commanding officers in your time. Bypass him if you have to, but don't let him kill your regiment. Almost as important, don't let the man provoke a damn' mutiny. That's all I ask."

Purdey and Dickens looked at each other, and nodded.

"Very good, sir" said Captain Purdey, whose body language suggested entirely the opposite. Ramkin looked sympathetic.

"Believe me, I'd have spared you this, if I could. But we've got to make the best of it. If the fellow _really_ goes berserk and you can't deal with it, send a message to me. Priority."

He paused, and added:-

"By the way, any sign of that blithering idiot Purdeigh yet?"

Purdey looked uneasy.

"No, sir. He _left _Derry with his Company to take them to Kingstown to embark…"

"And he insisted on reading the map himself?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. I did send messages and put the word out among other garrisons…"

"But he's lost without trace. Bloody idiot's probably in Agatea by now. If he delays the expedition sailin', I'm having him!"

"You have two officers of the same name? Doesn't that give cause for confusion?" Charles asked. Purdey smiled.

"Well, I'm Captain Rupert Purdey. P-U-R-D-E-Y. He's Captain Roderick Purdeigh **(4).** P-U-R-D-E-I-G-H. We were in the same class at Sto Lat. He's never really got the hang of navigation, poor chap. And yes, we do get each other's mail and written commands, but it's soon sorted out."

The Captain and the Sergeant fell out and left.

Ramkin, remembering something, called for pen and paper. He wrote two short messages, folded and sealed them, and sent a footman to deliver. One was addressed to the Palace and one to Doctor Whiteface. Both simply read:- _Have received intelligence that there are Klatchian "military advisors" working with the Kwa'Zulu. What information do you have? Need to know soonest. Ramkin._

"Right, people." he said to Johanna and Charles. "I've rustled up a coach. We're goin' for a little ride. In the circumstances we're carryin' an escort. If the Kwa'Zulu people have cooked up a deal with the damned assassins, then we're all targets! Now let me get a few things together… Charles, that sort of bush uniform the Boors wear. D'you have one? With that big floppy bush-hat sort of thing. If we can match its colour we're halfway there."

The coach drew up in a featureless street just outside the notorious Shades. Even though it was nearly midnight, there was still a hum of activity from a lighted building. Corporal Hughes, who'd been to Ankh-Morpork before and knew what to expect, ensured the escort were alert and well-placed to deal with any adverse activity. On the roof of the coach, Charles Smith-Rhodes ugly-looking bodyguard adopted an equally alert position, grinning wolfishly into the dark night. Hughes, who'd been taken to a zoo once or twice in childhood, remembered various Howondalandian creatures such as the baboon and the hyena, which he'd been told, to his boyish horror, could rip a man apart in seconds. He'd been introduced to this…man…Els, who'd been told that he and the soldiers were on the same side, a command Hughes had quickly relayed to his men. It was hard to believe, though, looking at the sloped flat forehead, the little piggy eyes, and the feral grin. _He'd be a bastard in a fight, _thought Hughes, warily. _And he'd start one just for the fun of it. A real bottle covey. _

He stepped forward, saluted, and offered his arm to assist Mrs Smith-Rhodes out of the coach.

"Thenk you, Corporel" she said, in that same oddly-accented Morporkian. Hughes wondered why the letter "a" appeared to have been lost from the language, and shrugged. He thought back to the word "Howandaland" that he'd heard slip once, and speculated that maybe all Howondalandians spoke like that. _Is that where we're going? I've heard the rumours too. And the lady almost let the word slip, she begun to say "Howandaland" and then corrected herself._

Lieutenant Rhodri-Protheroe got out of the coach and grinned at Hughes. "you're coming in the factory with us, Corporal. Yourself and mr Els, wherever he is – oh, there you are. Detail Lance-Corporal Owen to station the rest of the section on guard here, would you, so we've got a coach to come back to? Good-oh. Won't be long!"

Owen watched as the Field-Marshal, the Smith-Rhodes, and a minimal escort entered the factory, laden with several bags and bundles, Lord Ramkin was already bellowing for somebody called Catterail to show himself. Owen, who also knew Ankh-Morpork, loudly and ostentatiously ordered the guard detail to load crossbows. In a lower voice he said "safety catches on, though, boys". Then they settled down to wait.

"Mr Catterail isn't normally here on this shift" said the nervous, fussy-looking man who ran to meet them. "I'm Mr Smedley, the night shift foreman. Can I help?"

Ramkin fixed him with a choleric glare.

"Yes, you can help. Run to Catterail's house and throw bricks at his bedroom window. Wake him up, get the fellow here. I want to talk to him about a City contract with a lot of noughts after the number. If he's not interested, I'll talk to somebody else."

Ramkin's gaze took in the rows and rows of treadle sewing machines, ultimately powered by a golem in a treadmill. Then back to Smedley.

"What, still here? I gave you an instruction, man!"

Smedley weighed up the possibility of refusal, and then ran into the night.

"We can afford to wait a few minutes" Ramkin said. "But this is modern industry. A big shed, just enough light, and two hundred sewing machines. Did I mention I'm a big shareholder here? I needed somewhere reliable to do the uniforms for my Regiments, and I reasoned it made sense if I bought the factory. Some of the other lords buy their uniforms from me, which is gratifyin'. I got this man Catterail in to manage the business – knows his stuff, even though we've had words about the way he treats employees. Made him a minority shareholder so that he's got a stake in the business and works hard and doesn't try to cheat me. Although I'm fairly sure I ordered him to provide more light than THIS for the night shift to work by!"

Charles and Johanna spent a few minutes talking to some of the workers on the night shift. Ramkin had said, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, to talk as freely and honestly as y'like. If you have any grievances, I'll raise them with Catterail. I own this blasted factory, after all! Appalled at the sight of a mass industrial production line – there was nothing to compare to this back home in Howondaland, save perhaps the mines - they soon got the impression that the workers were poor, but fiercely, perhaps obtusely, proud. Ramkin later described it to them as the "Cockbill Street Mentality" – the working poor who are "proud that what precious little they've got, they've got from their own labour, and not from theft or charity or, hem, seamstressing."

Johanna had said, surprised, that she thought sewing and stitching and embroidery were _respectable_ trades, surely?

"Ah…" the Field-Marshal had said, uncharacteristically unsure as to how to proceed. Charles had coughed, diplomatically, and said "My wife's first language is not Morpokian, Sir Joshua".

A brief explanatory dialogue had occurred in the Kerrigian tongue, and Johanna suddenly blushed a deep scarlet, temporarily making her freckles invisible.

"A lot of visitors to this city make that mistake, m'dear." Ramkin consoled her. Then his attention was drawn by a soldier running in and saluting.

"Sir? A Mr Catterail, sir. Says you summoned him."

"Ah, _jolly_ good. Wheel him in, private!"

Catterail, a small rat-like man with a fussy moustache, still groggy from sleep, and showing all the assigns of having dressed in a hurry, was hustled forwards, Smedley anxiously behind him.

"Couldn't this have waited trill morning, Sir Joshua?" he asked, tiredly.

"No time. Every second counts. Show him, Charles?"

A Boor khaki uniform was spread out in front of him, over a cutting table.

"Can you match this colour, Catterail?" the Field Marshal demanded.

Catterail sniffed.

"Well, yes. Easily. But I fail to see…"

"Good. You'll need a lot of it, then. I want the material to be lightweight and suitable for a really hot summer. I also want durable and long-lasting."

"We can do that, Sir Joshua. Will they be for military use? Some sort of fatigue uniform?"

"I need ten thousand standard sets of tunic and trousers in all the standard sizes. They don't all need to be done in the next fortnight, I'll accept two thousand for immediate issue and the rest can follow on in support ships sailin' to resupply the expeditionary force. But I want enough to equip two full regiments in a fortnight's time. You'd better clear the decks and make a start, don't you think?"

Sir Joshua was not a sadistic man. But he'd heard stories about Catterail bullying the workforce and shaving all sorts of corners off staff pay and working conditions to make a bigger profit. He'd promised himself he'd have a word about it when he got the time, and now the opportunity had presented itself.

"Sir Joshua… that's only barely possible…. We need advance finance to buy the cloth, for one thing…"

"You've got a five thousand dollar advance to lay materials in as of now. And if you run three eight-hour shifts for twenty-four hours a day, you'll make it with time to spare. Night shift gets paid a better rate, as does weekend work, as we've discussed before. I hope I don't need to see the wage books?"

Catterail's guilty look said it all.

"And what about that better lighting you promised – we agreed – for the night shift? You've got people doin' fine stitchin' work in light I wouldn't care to read by! I thought we'd agreed to get more lamps in?"

"Well, none of the staff have complained…"

Sir Joshua took his junior partner by the lapels and lifted him off the ground.

"Now see _here,_ you little weasel. I bought this factory 'cos with three Regiments under arms, it made sense to get to grips with one of the big overheads, which is puttin' uniforms on their backs. I wanted to cut costs there, and he fact we do it so well that other Lords get us to sew _their_ regimental uniforms is like gravy on the potatoes. I know not very much about industry, which is why I employed you to look after that side for me. I approve of you making a profit and cuttin' costs, Catterail, but if it's at the expense of honest folk who do the work, I'd rather a bit less profit and a bit more in their paypackets, you follow? And I like to sleep at nights. If other people are workin' for me at night and goin' blind because ultimately I'm not payin' for light for them to work by – or I am payin' for light for them to work by, but that money is being diverted into some weasel's back pocket – then that disturbs my sleep, Catterail! And if what they sew at night, when they can't see to sew, is a bad seam that springs open on the arm or leg of one of me soldiers, that's shoddy practice! So – Get. Some. More. Lighting."

Sir Joshua shook his factory manager the way a terrier shakes a cornered rat.

"Ten thousand uniform sets, Catterail. At a unit cost of maybe five dollars each. That's fifty thousand dollars. It's for the good of the city. So forget any other order you're dealin' with. This takes priority. I'm prepared to pay you, personally, a completion bonus of five hundred dollars. I'm also puttin' another two thousand in the pot to share out among your workers, as it's _their_ sweat that completes it. And Gods help you if that two thousand does _not _get shared out fairly among the workers. They've all heard what I'm prepared to pay. I'll be long gone by the time this order's complete, but Lady Ramkin knows to send the accountants in to check your books and talk to the workforce. Any shady dealin's and your arse is nailed to the rafters. Have I made meself clear? Now get that fabric and get workin'. You can go to the Royal Bank in the mornin' and claim a cash advance, on my family account, for materials and overheads. Now get some more lamps and candles in, recruit however many additional staff you need, and pay them fairly, d'you hear?"

Catterail nodded, mutely. Sir Joshua gently replaced him on his feet. He wobbled slightly.

"Good man. Now gentlemen, we'll drop by later in the week to check progress. The next thing is this damned hat. Let's see the milliners, shall we? Ten thousand of these damn' solar bonnets."

________________________________-

They left the coach again outside a factory on Peach Pie Street.

Charles noted it was fully lit – far more so than the hellish-looking tailoring factory – and was also evidently running a night shift. Labourers were running around with hand-trucks, crates and boxes and carts were being loaded. He read the sign by the door: _Boult and Locke, Military and Ceremonial Outfitters. __**(5**_). Ramkin rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.

"Same drill as last time, if you please, Corporal."

"Sir!" said Hughes.

"Now you'll see what Ankh-Morpork is _good_ at!" Ramkin boomed, cheerfully, as they went in.

The muted bustle was that of skilled artisans doing an exacting job they liked doing: the contrast to Catterail's misery works could not have been more pronounced.

Within minutes, the party were met.

"Lord Ramkin!" the man in the anonymous brown worker's overall said. "How can we be of service?"

"Mr Locke!" Ramkin said, shaking hands. "Got a challenge for you. You're workin' late, by the way."

"Just finishing a consignment of shakoes for Lord Rust's new Regiment in formation. We're slightly behind schedule, so it's every set of hands on the factory floor. Including mine and Mr Boult's! Mr Dawson here" he indicated the foreman, "has been bullying me terribly to get a move on. But you can't spare a skilled craftsman to do unskilled labour, so I guess it has to be me."

"A bit slow." Dawson said, with a wink. "Just can't get the labour these days, I suppose!"

Ramkin grinned.

"I'm about to put you even further behind schedule, I'm afraid. Got a rush job for you. Got it with you, Lieutenant? Good."

Rhodri-Protheroe produced the riot control helmet. Mr Locke took it with frank interest.

"I remember these!" he said. "Did they do the job? Good, I'm so pleased! Sorry to hear about the Colonel, by the way."

"not as sorry as I was" Ramkin said "One of me best field commanders. He'll be missed on this expedition. Speakin' of which…"

"So it is Howondaland, then?" Mr Locke inquired. "The rumour mill's been working overtime"

"It is, and I'd be obliged if you didn't spread it around" Ramkin said. "We need ten thousand lightweight helmets. Built to this shape, in some sort of white material. It means takin' the armour plate out and keepin' the shape with some other sort of material".

"We've still got the original lasts." mused Mr Locke. "So shaping them won't be a problem. We can do things with lightweight but strong materials. Mr Boult, so we have any of that lightweight wood left?"

"I can certainly take the pith." Mr Boult said, thoughtfully.

"But can you conthruct a hat?" asked Rhodri-Protheroe. Everyone looked at him.

"Sorry, low joke."

"No, pith is a lightweight plant-based material which is both strong and flexible. A pith framework will give the final headwear strength and stability. If you wish, we can knock up a sample while you wait. Can I offer tea? Coffee?"

Within half an hour, the first pith hat had been assembled. Corporal Hughes tried it on, and as thoughtfully assessed.

"It's incredibly light, sir. Very comfortable" he said, as if not quite believing military headwear could be stylish _and _comfortable. This was outside his experience.

Ramkin looked on, assessing. "Perhaps some sort of hatband. Something the men could put their cap badges and distinctions into."

Mr Locke carried on making notes. Mr Boult cleared his throat.

"We can possibly have two thousand ready by the end of the fortnight. At a unit cost of four dollars each."

Ramkin nodded.

"It's important that all the men in this expedition have some sort of protective headwear" he said. I'll take the first two thousand gladly and issue them to me best men, but that still leaves eight thousand fellas…"

Ramkin stopped, looking at the standard Boor floppy hat, with its wide drooping brim.

"Are those any easier and faster to make?"

Boult and Locke examined one. They had a whispered conversation, and finally said:

"We can have five thousand of these done for you in addition to the two thousand pith helmets. One dollar fifteen shillings each."

"Done! said Ramkin, "Bill me personally. Keep making them till you have ten thousand of each, and put them on board supply ships to Howondaland for collection at our end. I'll be gone by then, but Lady Ramkin will act on the invoices. Will you need an advance payment for materials?"

On the way out, Charles said wonderingly "Sir Joshua, you must have spent nearly a hundred and fifty thousand dollars subsidising this expedition. Is that usual?"

Ramkin shrugged.

"I'm a rich man. I raise regiments. You soon learn that the City wants its wars, but isn't always as ready to pay for them. So you need a deep pocket. Last year it was Borogravia, and ferociously damn cold winters. My men needed better tents and warm blankets to sleep in and half-decent overcoats to wear. I think: you raise regiments. You command in a war. You're responsible for your men. Keep 'em well and fit and fed and you're halfway to winnin'. It's as simple as that, really."

They were just about to get into the coach when they heard running feet. The escort raised heir crossbows and pointed them. Corporal Hughes shouted "Halt!" A dark figure stepped forward into view and halted, raising his hands.

"Inigo Skimmer, palace clerk" he said, loudly. "Message for Lord Ramkin and his guests."

"Step forward! Slowly!" Hughes shouted.

"Corporel? I know him. We've met!" Johanna said. Skimmer turned to her voice.

"Hide Park, the other day, I believe, mrs Smith-Rhodes."

Hughes beckoned him forwards.

"Lord Samphire sends his compliments, and asks if you can attend him at the Palace urgently? In response to your written query."

Ramkin sighed. He'd been looking forward to some sleep.

"Hop on, mr Skimmer." he said, wearily. "The palace it is".

* * *

**(1)** On Roundworld, the Royal Welch Fusiliers are distinguished by a fanned-out arrangement of short black silk ribbons hanging from the back of the collar. The "flash" is the last survival of eighteenth-century uniform in the British Army and was worn, with pride, during the American War of Independence. The RWF retain it for reasons too long to explain here.

**(2)** This was the chosen uniform and rationale for the creation of the Rifle Brigades in 1810, who uniquely in the British Army dressed in green where everyone else wore scarlet. The world's first nod towards camouflage battledress, the Rifles were the elite troops of their day, shock infantry rather like modern paratroops and Marines.

**(3)** The British Army rediscovered this from 1969 onwards in Northern Ireland. Proud regiments that wore their berets, caps, plumes and feathers to police demonstrations and riots discovered that they were no guard against flying bricks, and were very easily snatched off and stolen as trophies. A riot control helmet was introduced for this duty.

**(4)** Later General Sir Roderick Purdeigh, who because of his navigational blind spot became possibly the Discworld's most inept explorer. See _**The Discworld Mappe**_ and _**the New Discworld Companion**_ for further details.

**(5) **They made the Postmaster-General's golden winged hat in _**Going Postal. **_


	9. Author's explanatory notes

_**Author's Notes:-**_

**_These will be presented here to give puzzled readers an overview as to what's happening and how it all fits into the Discworld._**

**_While the story is currently nowhere near completion, on completion these notes will go to the end. _**

**_If baffled, read on...._**

_**Locations:- **_

_**Hergen:- **_Is there on the Discworld Mappe, just "north" and "west" of Llamedos. As Terry Pratchett has never added anything to the name nor described the country and its inhabitants, I have considered it a blank space where free imagination can build it out a bit.

I asked the question – what is north and west of Wales (Llamedos) on the map of Roundworld? Answer: Ireland. Therefore it seemed right that Hergen on the Discworld should have a uniquely Irish vibe, right down to its troubled and painful history and its tortured relationship with Ankh-Morpork (Britain). I hope I have treated this with the right degree of sensitivity and black humour and worked in personal memories of having visited the country (or at least its top right hand corner) in less-than-ideal circumstances in the 1980's.

Note that in other stories, I have hinted that the (un-named) highland wilderness "east" of Hergen and "north" of Llamedos might just have a uniquely Scottish vibe to it and be the legendary ancestral homeland of the NacMac Feegle…

_**Howondalaand:- **_Terry Pratchett's analogue for all things African. My treatment of it deserves a fuller explanation.

First Principles: the Middle East is, as near to self-evident, represented by Omnia, Tsort, et c. The Saharan belt of Africa is therefore the desert countries of Djelibeybi and Klatch. Moving further "south" and "west" we get to Hersheba, and "south" of these we have Howondaland proper. In various places in the canon, (_**Reaper Man, Men At Arms, Moving Pictures**_) Terry Pratchett describes this as a place of steaming jungles and tropical forest. This amply and aptly parallels Central Africa. (Ref: Vimes sends failed Assassin Eustace Bassingly-Gore on a long hike home through the jungles of Howondaland. See _**The Fifth Elephant**_.)

But Howondaland is _also_ a place of what is variably called savannah, veldt and prairie, this is clear in the account of the elephant-wranglers in _**Moving Pictures**_, who assemble a herd of one thousand elephants for resale to CMOT Dibbler.

_**Reaper Man**_ confirms this picture, but adds a problem. We know from the character descriptions and naming conventions that _some_ Howondalandians are black of skin and parallel African tribes such as the Zulu. (_**N'Choate, N'Kouth, N'Seemli**_, et c.) But here, we get the "Red Indian" One-Man-Bucket, , who explicitly says his tribe's origins are out on the rolling prairies of Howondaland. _("I bin denied my deathright!") _This poses a problem. I hope I've resolved this in the text by moving the Red Indians well away from the Kwa'Zulu, north and west of the area I have called "Rhodesia", and well away from complicating the action: I've acknowledged they exist and noted that, as on Roundworld, they might be ethnically related to the Tzumen (Discworld's analogue of Aztecs and Mayans, a slightly more civilised American Indian). Tezuman (_**Eric**_) is technically in Howondalaand, but in the jungles over to the "east" of the Kwa'Zulu nation. Perhaps the red-skinned race was here first, but their ancestral lands were cut in two by black tribes making incursions? Anyway, they, the Sioux and the Comanches and the Kiowa and the Apaches, are material for another Fanfic. (I've had ideas).

_**White Howondalandians on the Disc? **_

Three pieces of evidence, both circumstantial but pointing in the correct direction, the third more concrete.

One: the vast historical spread of the Ankh-Morpokian Empire, at its widest: the Canon clearly tells us that this included Howondaland. The time period varies from two thousand years ago to four or five hundred, with some dogged survivals persisting into the last century from the consensus Discworld "present".

One thing an empire-building civilization invariably does is to build colonies. (We see in _**Jingo**_ that Vimes visits he decayed ruins of a long-dead Morporkian colony.). So Howondaland would have seen white immigrants sent out from the Motherland, to sink or swim as they will. As with Roundworld history, I'm assuming a quirk of history would have sent out people from the "Dutch" part of the Sto Plains, as with South Africa in our history. Again, no part of the Sto Plains is assigned a specifically "Dutch" identity: but I have taken the liberty of assigning Dutchness to the smallest and least described Sto, **Sto Kerrig**. Hence _Kerrigian_ for the language.

The second piece of canonical evidence (_**The Assassins' Guild Yearbook, the New Discworld Companion.**_) is the strange enigma of **Miss Smith-Rhodes**, named but not fleshed out as a new, younger, female teacher at the Assassins' Guild School.

As I have remarked in my entry on the **Pratchett/Discworld Wiki** (on the **L-Space Web**), this is a very telling name for Terry to choose, referring as it does to the great Empire-builder, imperialist and African white racist Cecil Rhodes (conqueror and founder of the State of Rhodesia) and Ian Smith (Rhodesia's last white leader, himself a racist and apartheid-upholder, finally forced to relinquish control in the early 1980's to Robert Mugabe.1

This choice of name just _cannot_ be accidental, given the general reactionary, right-wing, conservative miasma at the Assassins' Guild. A right-wing racist teacher from White Howondalaand might find herself fitting in admirably here…

I have given the Smith-Rhodes women the hereditary forename of _Johanna_, which seems to fit. I have fleshed out the character in other stories, ie _The Graduation Class, _and this is entirely of my devising.

But she is still a canonical character in the writings of TP. And suggests a white state still hangs on in faraway Howondalaand.

The third item of evidence:- In the Discworld, the 35th Llamedosian fight a heroic battle at a place called Lawkes' Drain. This evokes the real Roundworld battle at Rorke's Drift in South Africa, where a Welsh regiment fought off a Zulu army fifteen times its size. The location of Lawkes' Drain is not given in the Canon. (_**The Discworld Mappe**_). But if the battlefield's name evokes a famous fight in South Africa, why not have the battle in Howondalaand? Put this together with the canon's admission in Jingo that Sybil Ramkin's grandfather led an expedition to Howondalaand to fight Ankh-Morpork's sworn enemies, and we have both a rationale for a South Africa not entirely unlike ours, and a story.

_**Llamedos:- **_The Discworld analogue of Wales. Fleshed out by Pratchett over several books and shorter writings, it constrains any author using it to stick to the canon, where canonical facts are known about the place. But this is no bad thing. Druids run it as a sort of theocracy; the town/city of Pant-Y-Girdl is referenced as its principal settlement and perhaps capital; the 35th Llamedosians are referenced as one of its Army regiments, who fought a major battle at Lawkes' Drain; the Dickens family are well-known and frequently produce sergeants; and both Purdeigh and Purdey are Welsh/Llamedosian names. I just needed to create a convincing reason for an earlier Lord Rust having commanded one of its Regiments, as TP makes canonical in the booklet accompanying _**The Discworld Mappe. **_

_**Sto Kerrig: **_as with Hergen, a named but otherwise undescribed part of the Disc. Given its geographical proximity to places like Quirm, I elected to treat it as the analogue of Holland/Belgium. (see above).

_**Characters who appear in Pratchett's canon:-**_

_Sergeant (later Captain) Jack Clapstick:- _A _sloshi-_master, possibly a mature entrant into the Fools' Guild with Army service, commands the Jolly Good Pals, the Guild's feared martial clowns, and enforcers for Doctor Whiteface. As the Fools' Guild took seriously the command that all Guilds must form Army battalions to boost the City's defences in time of trouble, Sergeant Clapstick is likely to be tasked with this responsibility. And if the guild offered "Special Farces" to an overseas expedition, he'd _certainly_ lead its contingent. As with all Clowns, the Name and Face are inheritable. (Source: _**The New Discworld Companion**_).

_Sergeant Sidney Colon: _An archetype of Fred Colon. It isn't unreasonable to suspect certain characteristics travel up and down the family line, subject to the strange laws of Discworld genetics. Therefore Fred's great-grandfather has more than passing semblance to the Colon who is more familiar to us!

_Sergeant Dai Dickins:- _essentially the character from _**Night Watch, **_but brought back in time for another 100 – 120 years to play his own great-grandfather. This is a conceit I have used a lot in this novella.

_Lance-Corporal Norbert "Hooky" Nobbs:- _See note for Sidney Colon and apply to Nobby Nobbs. (son of Sconner, grandson of Slope, and here, in my fiction, great-grandson of Norbert).

_Sir Joshua Ramkin:- _Lady Sybil's grandfather, who according to _**Jingo**_ led an expedition to Howondaland to fight Ankh-Morpork's enemies.

_Captain Roderick Purdeigh:- _A commissioned twit. He later became notorious explorer General Sir Roderick Purdeigh, who met his end at the large and merciless hands of an enraged orang-utan. (See _**The Discworld Mappe). **_One of the two officers who in actuality led the defence of Lawke's Drift. Unfortunately, a regrettable administrative error led to Purdeigh receiving the medal and promotion meant for

_Captain Rupert Purdey:- _An extremely capable young officer and a born leader of men whose leadership won the battle of Lawkes' Drain. (see_** The Discworld Mappe).**_ But owing to the same administrative error, he missed out on honours and promotion. As was so often the case of gifted officers without connections and with no family money, he finished his career as Officer i/c Fodder and Horseblankets.

_Lord Ronald Rust:- _The eternal upper-class prick. Named in _**The Discworld Mappe**_ as having been in command of the 35th Llamedosian at the battle of Lawke's Drain. So he had to be there.

_Lord Samphire:- _Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. He is cited as a precedent for how _not_ to do things by Vetinari, in _**Nanny Ogg's Cook-Book. **_

_Johanna Smith-Rhodes:- _Something of a liberty here, as her great-grand-daughter only appears once in the books, as a teacher at the Assassins' Guild School. Elsewhere I have fleshed out the character, and she appears here as her own _grand-ouma. _The visualisation of the Smith-Rhodes women is entirely mine, although the as-yet-un-formed character belongs to Terry Pratchett.

_Doctor Whiteface:- _The generic post-holder who the Face occupies for a time, then moves on. Feared by all as the Head of the Fools' Guild. Has absolutely no sense of humour as a non-Fool would understand it.

_**Characters "borrowed" from Tom Sharpe's canon:-**_

_Konstabel Els: _An Afrikaaner Nobby Nobbs shorn of all Nobby's redeeming virtues and given a vicious sadistic streak.

_Sergeant de Kok:- _The Afrikaaner archetype of Fred Colon: fat, lazy, slightly cowardly, old-timer waiting for retirement.

_Liutnant Verkramp: _A certifiably insane secret policeman who would make Findthee Swing seem normal and rational. Charged with enforcing apartheid and racial classification laws.

_Kommandant van Heerden:- _Incompetent and over-promoted police chief. "Mayonnaise" Quirke crossed with Captain Tilden.

_**Wholly invented characters:-**_

_Jan Blots:- _Based on Afrikaaner soldier and statesman Jan Smuts.

_Corporal Huw Hughes - _based on several Welsh corporals encountered during the author's army service.

_Maroon and Stippler – _we are told in the Canon that these families provide hereditary porters to the Assassins' Guild.

_Second lieutenant Rhodri-Protheroe -_ a little bit of the author himself creeping in here.

_Professor Mortis –_ because there had to be a Master of the Assassin's Guild. I invented him.

_**The film **_**Zulu:- **is also an inspiration for this story. In the Discworld, the 35th Llamedosian fight a heroic battle at a place called Lawkes' Drain. This evokes the real Roundworld battle at Rorke's Drift in South Africa, where a Welsh regiment fought off a Zulu army fifteen times its size. The location of Lawkes' Drain is not given in the Canon. (_**The Discworld Mappe**_). But if the battlefield's name evokes a famous fight in South Africa, why not have the battle in Howondalaand? Put this together with the canon's admission in Jingo that Sybil Ramkin's grandfather led an expedition to Howondalaand to fight Ankh-Morpork's sworn enemies, and we have both a rationale for a South Africa not entirely unlike ours, and a story.

The Thirty-fifth are deliberately written to evoke the Welsh characters in the film, as is the defence of the Drain. They also incorporate Royal Welch Fusiliers I knew many years ago.

1 OK, so the latter part of Mugabe's reign as Supreme Leader of Zimbabwe is not a good advert for black majority rule…)


	10. Recruitment and Selection

_**Ripping Yarn – 9 – "The Recruitment Drive"**_

_Moved to pick this one up again after a long break. One of those situations – plenty of ideas and a sketched-out plot, but no time to do anything with them!_

_**Sto Plains. Somewhere between Sto Kerrig and Ankh-Morpork. **_

Johanna Smith-Rhodes shifted moodily in the coach. She stared moodily out over the miles and miles of cabbages. They had left the tulip fields behind now, and as far as she remembered from the road out, it was cabbage all the way to the City. Charles was out there somewhere, riding up and down the column, talking to the men and encouraging the more footsore of the new recruits. She felt a little bit neglected and surplus to requirements.

The day after their consultation with Sir Joshua Ramkin concerning the best uniforms for wear in Howondaland, she, Charles and members of the Howondalandian mission had set out for the Motherland to beat the drum for the cause. This had not been without difficulties: Sto Kerrig, whilst it was the revered Motherland of the Boor peoples, was not an independent state, and existed as a Protectorate of the larger and dominant Sto Helit. Therefore, an unannounced mission, seeking volunteers to form a Kommando and travel on to Howondaland to fight for their kith and kin there, had met with objections and obstacles.

Charles had argued the case with the Prince Regent and the Burgomeister, pointing out that the opportunity to send some of your restless and rootless young men out to Howondaland, with the promise of adventure and excitement, and the possibility of land of their own and a place they could call Home afterwards, would be a benefit to all concerned. This was, indeed, in the true pioneering spirit of the Kerrigian emigrants of old who had braved a five week voyage down past Cape Terror to set foot on unknown land and claim it for their own.

In the end, a couple of their precious and well-guarded gold ingots had changed hands, and the Prince Regent had graciously said he could hardly refuse such a noble crusade to take place. You will, of course, wish to exchange a further ingot or two for _guilders_, at a good exchange rate, so as to pay your new recruits?

Charles had ground his teeth at the robbery involved, but had submitted. It was the only way. And a further well-placed bribe or two, operating through the Burgomeister of DamHamster, had loosened his memory as to where old veteran sergeants might be found, who would relish knocking a new Regiment into scratch from raw recruits and leading it in one last battle, before, no doubt, those old sergeants and sergeants-major elected to retire in the sun and warmth of a grateful Howondaland.

And only then had they been able to set up shop and make their sales pitch, of action and excitement in a noble cause. For Charles, son of a populist politician well used to making stirring speeches, it had been a virtuous performance on the hustings. A war with an implacable enemy and foe of all that white men held dear, a war with the perfidious Kwa'Zulu hordes, who in the past had raided into White Howondaland and… well, I must send my wife out of earshot while I relate to you the shocking facts.

And afterwards, if we win and you survive, the chance to start anew, with a land grant and the thanks of White Howondaland, a nation where at the last census, young women outnumbered young men…. We would also not oppose any request for a wife or a sweetheart to join you in your new land where you will be full citizens, should you wish it. We may even subsidise the costs of such close dependents to come out and join you.

_Well, the Staadt needs every able-bodied man it can get, _Charles thought. _Let's get a few ships of well-motivated emigrants coming our way again. _

A trickle, but a slow and steady one, had begun, and six hundred Kerrigian men had signed the rolls and accepted the Guilder. The Burgomeister had intervened towards the end, pointing out that the local Guild of Merchants and the Tulip-Farmers' Association had made representations to him about so many of their young field-hands and apprentices signing up for the Howondalandian Army, and how he did not propose to see his country denuded of the young men it needed. The _surplus population,_ yes, and I can offer amnesty to any convict in our prison who wishes to emigrate and fight his way to a pardon, but not to the point where it bites into essential useful people.

Several very capable sergeants having showed up, eager for one last active campaign and a new challenge, Charles conferred with them. It was agreed they would take fifty convicts on promise of amnesty after good service, to be selected by a panel of sergeants whose decision was final.

"The only way, _mijnheer_!" said old Sergeant de Gloem. "We'll have to keep them at least handcuffed on the road, though, or we'll lose a few. If they get to the docks at Ankh-Morpork and aboard ship, we'll free them then. At least we can teach 'em to march in step and sing the old songs!"

And even a couple of officers had shown up: a couple of so far unassigned graduates of the Sto Lat Military Academy who wanted to join the adventure, together with two older, experienced, veterans of battles fighting for other peoples' armies. Charles had checked their credentials so far as he was able, and had gratefully signed them up.

_A major, a captain, and three green subalterns. Still, pair them up with good sergeants, and we now have a Kommando. We can take on more officers and NCO's when we get to Howondaland. _

_All I have to do now is contrive some sort of training for them and get six hundred raw recruits to start thinking and acting like a unit. Sir Joshua has promised a kit issue when we arrive in the city. That will help. _

For a second he felt anxious. Then he remembered he had sergeants. And felt happier. He rode down the line of recruits, who had been divided into ad-hoc companies, past the Treasury cart that held the new Regiment's cash-boxes and which was well-escorted by a veteran sergeant and the best of the experienced soldiers who had answered the call, (all of whom had brought their own weapons and even some armour and helmets), right down the line to the _cantinieuse_ cart.

Enlisting women, even _these_ women, had been a worry to him. But Sergeant deGloem had said it was in the best tradition, sir, that a _cantinieuse_ accompanied the Regiment with her ladies. She could be relied upon to feed the men, negotiate for provisions along the way, set up her field kitchen three times a day, and supervise delivery of the _sloep_**(1)** to the men. She could be relied upon to provide luxuries like soap and perhaps the odd beer, at a price, and her ladies were equally composed of wives or _next-best-thing _to some of the older men, or the sort of lady who might discreetly offer other comforts after dark, at a negotiable price, if you catch my meaning. It's an old Quirmian military tradition, sir, that what are unkindly called camp followers will always be with us. Putting them on the regimental strength makes sense, as that way we keep it controlled and above-board. And if you advance the ration allowance to Bertha, she's experienced enough to get you best price for the best food and drink, sir. She's _good_ at this.**(2)**

Charles had thought about it, and agreed it made sense. It solved the problem of feeding the men, anyway.

"One hour to a meal stop, Frau Lijserman!" he called. The _cantinieuse_ gave him a broad grin in reply. She already had a cabbage-preparation line at work, even on a moving wagon. And he fancied he could already smell cooking vegetables. Charles turned a very blind eye to the forage party at work in the fields they were passing through, and surveyed his temporary command. The sergeants were holding it together well, and footsore stragglers were being alternately cajoled, encouraged and threatened back into line. The men of the penal company, handcuffed and wearing their bright orange prison jackets still, stomped stolidly along, veterans of hard labour. This was just another treadmill to them, only one with better scenery. If anything, they seemed to be enjoying it.

_They're just out of prison. This must be a big change for the better after staring at four stone walls all day. _

Again, he felt uneasy. The sergeants had assured him they'd weeded out the worst bad bargains and refused a few who were completely bad lots. But there were men there who'd done some not very nice things. What was he importing to his country? He wondered about sending Els in to befriend them and show them the ropes. The ones even Els shunned would be the ones to keep a special eye on.

But for now to ride back to the coach, to be with Johanna for a while… he noted the small wood they were marching towards. The first trees for miles. Ankh-Morpork was somewhere on the other side…

* * *

Almost the last of the Llamedosians had made it into Ankh-Morpork. They were still waiting for Captain Purdeigh's company, lost Gods-knew where, owing to their commanding officer's extreme inability to read a map, understand a lodestone, or even orientate himself. Roderick Purdeigh was notorious for it.

In between bouts of scarlet fuming and high-bred rage, Field-Marshal Ramkin and Lord Rust were making the best of a bad bargain by putting the new regiment through its paces in intensive training. Lord Samphire and the other Lords had seen an opening too: the manpower deficiencies in the 35th Llamedosian had been made up by drafting in prisoners from the Tanty who had been offered amnesty, conditional to good Army service. This semi-welcome draft had been supplemented by the other Regiments clearing out their bad bargains, difficult soldiers, and generally useless men in the direction of the Llamedosians.

Rupert Purdey had protested, but had been told there was nothing doing – these were the only replacements he was likely to get and he had to make the most of them. Right now, Mr Dickens and a couple of senior sergeants were engaged in what was ostensibly basic drill, but which in reality was a session of breaking in the prison draft and making it clear absolutely what was expected of them.

Working parties were on the docks loading the troopships. There is an art and science to loading a ship with everything needed to sustain several hundred men and draught animals for five or six weeks. Equipment which was only to be broken out on arrival in Howondaland would go in first, as it could safely be left in the bottom of the hold. But items needed every day had to go in where it could easily be retrieved, and nothing, but nothing, could be stowed in such a way as to interfere with the good trim of the ship. Naval officers and petty officers were planning and supervising, and the Army was providing the basic unskilled labour.

Two such members of the draft have capitalised on their long service with other regiments to slip off behind a chandlers' stores for a sly cigarette.

"So what's it _for,_ Hookey?" asked the slightly older, fatter, man, who despite the evidence has risen to full corporal. He is in his middle thirties and has a generally placid, even-tempered but somewhat _defeated_ aura to him. The other is wiry, somewhat underheight and undernourished, a walking picture to go with Sir Joshua Ramkin's description of the typical Ankh-Morporkian soldier as _"underweight by fourteen pounds, in possession of half his own teeth and six inches undersized."_

He is a lance-corporal, but with a hunted, feral, shifty look to him, of the sort that, like any street rat, might get violent if cornered. He is formerly of the Royal Sto Plains Riflers**(3)**, but was thrown out for excessive theft and conduct unbecoming. This says a lot, as does the fact that he and Konstabel Els will, when they meet, each see a kindred spirit.

Lance-Corporal Norbert "Hookey" Nobbs spat, marginally cleaning the quayside at their feet. He carried on cleaning his fingernails with his reinforced pliers, a legacy of his time with the Riflers.

"They say it's Howondaland, don't they, Sidney?" he grated. The voice is harsh, but if ever called to heel by higher authority, it will have a wheedling, whiny, put-upon edge to it. It is a Nobbs family trait, after all.

"Zulus". shuddered Corporal Sidney Colon. "Ginormous great black men. Super-fit, they say they can run thirty miles across the jungle veldt in battle order on a handful of porridge and still fight a war at the end of it."

Colon had left a wife and children in Ankh-Morpork. He wondered if he'd ever see them again.

Nobbs had also left a wife and son in Ankh-Morpork. He was happy to have an excuse not to see them again. Even so, he had reservations.

"Yeah. They say your average Zulu warrior is six foot tall. All muscle. And he don't wear any _boots_, Sidney. He goes barefoot!

And what's more, they got all their own teeth! I ask you, what sort of a bleedin' war is _this_ likely to be? No boots, no gold teeth. You might as well leave the bleedin' dentistry kit at home!"

"Nothing to send home to Maude and the lad?" asked Colon, sympathetically. Hookey Nobbs snorted.

"Young Slope? The lad's ten, Sidney. He can stir himself and get a job. What with people rushing to the regiments for the new wars, I heard some of the noble houses are going to be short of servants. I tole his mum to offer him out as Chimney Boy to the noble houses. When he ain't lighting their fires, and to a bleedin' little arsonist like him that should be _no _bother, he can get up their chimneys and bleedin' well clean them!"**(4)**4

_Besides, _Nobbs thought_, I'm not one hundred per cent sure he's mine at all. His mum were in service at the time with the Duke de Nobbes. I was out in the field with the Regiment, weren't I. OK, so the moment I got back I hustled Maude up them stairs to meet her maritals, so there's an outside chance he's mine, but I don't like the reputation the old Duke had with serving women. _

"And his mum can get down Sheer Street and do what she always does when cash is tight."

Colon considered this.

"Some good pawnbrokers on Sheer Street…" he ventured.

"Possibly, Sidney. Only possibly."

They resumed contemplation of the alley for a while.

"Howondaland…"

"Tropical diseases. Blazing heat. Venomous serpents under your feet." muttered Colon.

"Gold. Diamonds. Easily carried. " mused Nobbs. "They say there's a fortune out there."

Both men, lost in their dreams and nightmares, smoked on. At least until an obvious officer sauntered up, and smilingly said he trusted their no-doubt well-deserved smoke break was over. Now perhaps they'd like to take a turn at loading the ship, hmmm? Officers' Mess stores, you'll be given a working detail and instruction on where it all goes.

"Now chop-chop, gentlemen, there's a war on!"

Lieutenant Rhodri-Protheroe grinned as the two old hands slumped off. He remembered their faces. They'd been smart enough to dodge a duty, and that sort of smarts could be useful in the future when they'd be soldiering by feel, not by the book.

Meanwhile, Hookey Nobbs wondered what was small and portable enough in officers' stores to be worth nicking. Life was looking up….

* * *

The Kerrigian Regiment marched gratefully into the cover of the trees as the road wound on through the small wood.

Charles Smith-Rhodes sat his horse and paused to allow the men to pass him, looking for signs of alertness, ability and something extra in the soldiers. He was going to need to promote a few lance-corporals, or at least privates first class, to perform basic supervision of the others. Despite his own recent _kommando_ service, he still wasn't sure how you did this in a unit you were raising from scratch, and he knew he'd be relying on the experienced sergeants they had recruited. At least he'd be handing over command to a skilled professional cadre the moment they got back home and disembarked at Zlabingo or Carp Town….

There was a mosquito-like _zingggg!_ in the air, and Charles wondered briefly where his hat had gone to. An urgent instruction coming up from his hindbrain warned him not to even _think_ of looking for it, and he spurred his horse on. He was vaguely aware of time slowing and a commotion in the ranks near him, among the prisoners.

He was vaguely aware of another mosquito in the air, and his horse reared, neighing, forcing him to try to get it back under control.

A crossbow snapped.

Then a black-clad body fell from the trees, landing awkwardly and terminally in the road.

"_Get under cover, sir! It's you they're after!"_

Other crossbows were pointing up into the trees now, one or two loosing at shadows, others, held by experienced men, scanning and covering. He was vaguely aware of Konstabel Els leaping, prehensile, into the lower branches of a tree and scrambling up.

Charles handed his horse over to one of the men, and ran to cover behind a wagon. Sergeant deGloem grinned at him.

"Assassin, sir!"

"Who got him?" Charles asked.

deGloem indicated one of the prisoners.

"Grabbed the crossbow from Pietersen, he did, sir. Then shot up, cool as you please, and got that verdamte Assassin. "

There was a scream, and two figures dropped from a tree, locked in combat.

"Ah. Now there's the other one! They never come in ones, Assassins. On a job like this there'd be at least two, covering each other's backs. Maybe more…"

There was the sound of galloping horses, receding quickly.

"Two riders! Wearing black! Leading two other horses!" called a watching trained soldier.

"And there go the rest." said deGloem. He shook his head to men getting up to pursue. No point.

Charles leapt to his feet. Assassins were not ususally trained for hand-to-hand combat, disdaining it as gutter fighting.**(5)** Els had therefore gone in hard and dirty and subdued his man, who was stunned and bleeding.

"_Els! Don't kill him!" _he ordered.

Konstabel Els sighed, and dragged the stunned and half-dead Assassin over to his boss.

"Say the word, sir. I know a few tricks. We cen soon find out who sent them…"

"No." said Charles, firmly. The Guild had already told him, in as many words. Besides, while he knew it was perfectly acceptable, if regrettable, to kill the Assassin sent to inhume you, he wasn't sure how the Guild would take it if you tortured any survivors.

The captured Assassin breathed in heavily.

"My name is the right honourable Jason Eddicombe-Wiggs, sir" he said. "I know you are Mr Charles Smith-  
Rhodes. I regret client confidentiality forbids me from saying…"

"Understood" said Charles. "No hard feelings. Is that the correct gentlemanly response? Well, Mr Eddicombe-Wiggs, I propose to let you return to the Kwa'Zulu Legation so as to be able to inform them the attempt failed. You will of course surrender your weapons and equipment." He grinned as the Assassin blinked at the bullseye.

A thought struck Charles.

"What was the price on me?"

"Twenty thousand dollars, sir. It was thought you'd be an easy target out in the open."

_They know better now. And will know more when I turn this man and the corpse of his friend out on Filigree Street. _

"Guild takes fifty percent in tax?"

The Assassin pondered this. Then he said "Please do not misunderstand this. I am your prisoner, after all". And reached into his tunic. Els kept him covered.

He passed Charles two ornate scrolls.

"Guild bonds for ten thousand dollars, sir. Any bank will accept them."

Charles nodded.

"A thousand to konstabel Els for bringing you down. Two thousand to…." He turned to the convict soldier who had fired the killing shot.

"Pieter van Streijsand, mijnheer. Before arrest, I was a poacher on the lands of the Prince Regent. I could bring down anything that flew, on the wing or in the tree. And that big black bird was such a simple target!"

"Strike off his manacles, sergeant." Charles commanded. "As far as I'm concerned he's now a free man. And the first of many. Consider him for a lance-corporal's stripe, while we're about it?"

"Sir!" said deGloem.

Charles grinned.

"Strip this man. And the corpse of his friend. When you are satisfied you have all his concealed weapons, as a gentleman he can be allowed to travel in the coach with Johanna and I. _Dressed_, of course, but disarmed. Stow the corpse, similarly disarmed, somewhere cool, but treat it with respect. When we reach Filigree Street, allow this gentleman, the corpse of his associate, _and their weapons, _to disembark so as to report back on their mission. I want nothing stolen, except of course the money they are carrying. Which will reward two brave men. The balance, I think, will be used to initiate a Regimental Benevolent Fund. Thank you. Now dress the column, if you please, Mijnheer de Gloem!"

Charles sighed. One attempt on his life thwarted, then. _The sooner we are on ship and en route Home, the better!_

* * *

**(1) **Think of _**Monstruous Regiment**_ and _saloop_. Same word, only in Dutch -and not a coincidence English "slop" comes from the same root.

**(2) **Every regiment in Napoleon's Grand Armee had its Cantinieuse, a practice Dutch, German and other nationalities allied to France learnt from. An all-purpose cookhouse, NAAFI, moving shop/bar and with Seamstresses on the strength.

**(3) The Terry Pratchett Discworld Wiki **has this to say about the Royal Sto Plains Riflers.

An Army regiment, loyalties unclear. Possibly raised in the Sto Plains for service in the wider Ankh-Morpork hegemony (as its commander was at one point the noted explorer Sir Roderick Purdeigh), whose father Sir Ruthven Purdeigh was also a previous commander. On the other hand, at least one of the Sto states (Sto Helit) has its own ruling royal house, and Sto Lat has its own dedicated Military Academy.

The Riflers were so called for their habit of collecting weapons, boots, gold teeth and jewellry off the stricken foe, and for the lunatic bravery they displayed in battle so as to make sure there were as many of the stricken foe as possible. So keen was the average Riflingman that many would go into battle armed only with pliers and armoured shoehorns, and would manage, in the press of battle, to acquire teeth and footwear from enemies who were not only alive but actively fighting back.

As the Regiment is heard of as being active in the middle 1800's - perhaps over a hundred years before the consensus present - it may be the case that it has since been disbanded, amalgamated or otherwise struck off the active list. Otherwise it would have been a near-perfect posting for Nobby Nobbs, but there is no record of his having served as a Riflingman.

**(4) **"Slope" Nobbs did indeed take service about this time, with the Duke de Nobbes, an odd coincidence of name that Terry Pratchett makes use of in _**Feet of Clay. **_The first recorded Nobbs in the canon, his son is the terrible Sconner Nobbs, who becomes the father of the well-known Cecil StJohn Wormborough Nobbs (Nobby Nobbs). I have given Nobby a possible alternative great-grandfather, or maybe a face-saver to Maude Nobbs.

**(5) **the Guild School would not even think of remedying this until Vimes' Watch , routinely trained to fight dirty, gained on the ascendency. Again, the great-grand-daughter of Charles and Johanna would have to do with what the Guild would call Unorthodox Combat Techniques.


	11. Embarking for Howondaland

_**Ripping Yarn – 10**_

_Moved to pick this one up again after a long break. One of those situations – plenty of ideas and a sketched-out plot, but no time to do anything with them!_

Sir Joshua Ramkin put down the urgent despatch from the Palace, in which it was confirmed that a Klatchian "military delegation" was currently in the Kwa'Zulu territory, observing and training the Zulu army, and no doubt instructing it to use crossbows, perhaps even putting together the nucleus of Zulu cavalry regiments.**(1)**

He sighed. He'd deal with this when he had to. Then he looked over the breakfast table to Lady Ramkin's slightly annoyed face, having belatedly registered something she was saying.

"_Pregnant?" _he exploded._ "How the Hells did that happen?" _

"Well, _you_ should know, Joshua!" she said, through pursed lips.

Mingled feelings passed through him. Ramkin men tended to marry late and reluctantly. He was nearly twenty years older than Lady Ramkin, and she was no spring lamb herself, in her middle forties. He'd been afraid the whole damn lot would have to be willed to his wastrel nephew. But this altered things…

"Damn inconvenient time." he grumbled, but he was beginning to smile. "Just a shame I won't be here to see it happen…"

"You go away and _do your duty_." she proclaimed. Her voice brooked no argument. "I'm best here. And besides, Ramkin women have carried heirs in _far_ worse places than this!"

He knew she was right. He himself had drawn his first breaths in a partially ruined Embassy under siege by Klatchistanian tribesmen. His mother, apparently, had taken five minutes rest, then toured the defences brandishing him like a battle-flag, to drive it home to the exhausted defenders what exactly they were fighting for and for them not to even _dream_ of letting the side down by surrendering. She had capped her performance by picking up a crossbow in her spare arm, and winging a Klatchi tribesman who was stealthily angling for a sniper shot.

A fine woman, Mother, and in the best Ramkin tradition.

He sighed. Would he have a victory to name his son after?**(2) **Time would tell.

* * *

Sidney Colon swallowed hard. Under the unblinking scrutiny of a group of Llamedosian sergeants and corporals, who, wouldn't you know it, were talking among themselves in their own heathen lingo the way they did, he felt intimidated. He and Mrs Colon had once rented a caravan in Llamedos for a holiday. He deeply suspected they used their language as a weapon, something to use to put one over on innocent holidaying Morks to make them feel uncomfortable. It must be, they could all speak perfectly good Morporkian when they wanted to…

"Can you _sing_, boy?" said one, in a deep bass voice.

"Sing? Er…"

"Give us a few lines, then. Anything."

Sidney looked at the ring of expectant dour faces and swallowed. The only song he could think of was "Advance Morporkia Fair." He hoped they didn't take it as an insult.

The Llamedosians looked at each other and nodded.

"Good untrained tenor."

"Aye. Good enough, for a _morc._ He will fit."

"Give the man practice. Good build for a tenor, too."

Then the most senior NCO, RSM Dickens, had stepped forward. He looked Colon over, gravely.

"As of this moment, boy, I would be obliged if them corporal's stripes came off your arms."

Colon's face fell. The RSM held out a small knife. Colon took it, and with as much dignity as he could muster, he cut through the stitches securing a stripe. You did not refuse the RSM.

"All the way off, if you please. Thank you. "

Colon wondered how Mrs Colon would take the news of his demotion. Then the RSM grinned broadly and held out a new set of stripes.

"As of this moment you is now a Sergeant, see. We is going to war, I feel it in my bones, I needs sergeants, and you has seen service. Do not disappoint me, and somebody get our new sergeant a beer, he looks like he has need of one!"

Then Sergeant Sidney Colon fell into a flurry of welcoming smiling faces and backslaps. He hurriedly revised his opinion of Llamedosians. Fine fellows and grand company.

* * *

Doctor Mortimer Lawn scowled over his rimless spectacles. An Army doctor to his core, he had seen malingerers by the score. He had even written the book on dealing with the idle and lazy. But this one took not only the biscuit, but the whole afternoon teaset, and if he wasn't carefully watched, the table too, plus cloth and dainty lace doilies.

"Your last doctor pronounced you a terminal case of _ergonophobia_, Nobbs?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" said Hookey Nobbs, brightly. "He said it was so deeply ingrained nothing could be done about it, and the only cure was complete abstinence from all heavy lifting and carrying. Sir."

"And the mere sight of, say, a troopship needing to be loaded with five weeks worth of provisions for a long sea voyage brings you out in dizziness and a cold sweat?" Doctor Lawn probed, deciding this was worth at least an appendix in the Revised Expanded Edition.

"Oh yes, sir, and don't forget the fits of physical weakness what it brings on."

Doctor Lawn nodded, in a way that might have been mistaken for sympathetic.

"I see. Well…" he donned heavy surgical gloves and a facial mask, and reached for certain items of equipment in a sterile dish. Large, sharp, items.

"Well, I'd be remiss in my medical duty if I didn't at least lance those boils. Take his arms, please, gentlemen."

Two burly medical orderlies stepped forward and forced Nobbs face-down over an examination couch.

Hookey's eyes opened wide. He hadn't been expecting this…

"This will not hurt a bit, Lance-corporal Nobbs!" the doctor said, with complete honesty.

A few pain-filled minutes later, Nobbs looked up through suddenly moist eyes.

"I'm a great believer in shock therapy for curing really stubborn neurological cases." the doctor said, conversationally, as he gingerly dropped the lancet in the steriliser. "The idea that a cure is affected by unflinching contact with the thing most feared. Works wonders with phobics of all sorts! So I'm writing you a prescription for hard work, to be taken three times daily for a week. Show it to the Provost-Sergeant on the way out, if you will. Oh, and Nobbs? Kindly turn your pockets out and surrender the bottles of pills you filched on the way in, if you'd be so kind. I have a good cure for kleptomania, as well. Quite shockingly painful, but works wonders!"

* * *

Congratulations were extended at the Palace at the news of Sir Joshua Ramkin's belated fatherhood. But this was about the only civility of an otherwise angry and heated senior officers' conference.

"Any news of Purdeigh's company?" Ramkin had asked. The ability of Roderick Purdeigh to get lost on the march was _legendary._

"I believe they were intercepted up towards the Hub." Patrician Samphire said, amiably. "Captain Purdeigh has been persuaded to surrender the map and the lodestone to his senior sergeant, and I believe they will now be here within the week. There is the little matter of the diplomatic incident with Hubsvensska, whose border guards thought we were invading them, but I believe this has been amiably sorted out. Purdeigh's ability with a map is internationally renowned, after all.**(3) **But now to business?"

Lord Rust stepped forward on cue, his face an angry mask.

"See here, Joshua!" he barked. "What the _hell_ is all this about a _new uniform_? You're dressin' the men to look like _labourers! Or worse, like unwashed red-necked Boor farmers! _They look positively_ scruffy! _I'm not havin' it, not in _my _regiments!"

Ramkin noted how the other Lords fell in behind their spokeslord, and he sighed heavily.

"Let's go through the arguments _again_, shall we, gentlemen? One: comfort. I know the comfort of your men is an alien combination of words to you, but the fact is that we are going to be dealing with a climate that can kill men ill-prepared for it…"

This was going to be a long morning.

* * *

Johanna did not like sharing her coach with the man who had been paid to kill her husband, even if he had failed. If it was down to her, she'd have taken his boots away and made him bleddy well _walk._ But Charles was hospitality itself to the wretched man, who seemed relieved to be still alive and out of the clutches of the unspeakably brutish Els.

As her temper boiled off, she realised Charles was being his usual clever self. The would-be assassin was relieved to be alive, and was making the mistake of relaxing in unexpected comfort and the congeniality of a would-be client for his professional services who appeared to be bearing no grudge at all. With a glass of good wine inside him – from a precious bottle of Stellenbosch Caubernet Sauvignon that had travelled with them from Home – the two men had a leisurely conversation about the respective merits of Central Continent versus Howondalandian wines.

After about the third glass, the Assassin was relaxed enough to start _really_ talking, Charles listening intently and prompting every now and again.

"You need have no fear of the party of Guild affiliates who will be taking ship with you to Howondaland, sir." the young Assassin assured him, his tongue loosened by the best wine Howondaland had to offer. "They will be aware that there is a contract out on you, of course, but they will be constrained from attempting to realise it. I say, this is remarkably good wine, isn't it? Hub-facing terraces, you say? And grapes grown from Quirmian stock by emigrants. Of course. It's that they will be the party tasked with the contract on the Paramount King. They will be relying, of course, on the good graces of your father while in a foreign country, and to make an attempt on you would be rather unwise, as well as a conflict of interests. Quite apart from which, a ship at sea is a closed community, and we _do_ rather like to be able to get away as soon as possible after the conclusion of a contract. Nowhere to run or hide, you see And too far to swim."

The young man winced. Charles obligingly topped up his glass.

"In Ankh-Morpork you are safe, of course. And our attempt on you failed. I do not believe there will be another."

Johanna smiled at his cleverness, and returned to making rough notes for her Journal again. She hoped her account of her journey to Ankh-Morpork and the Central Continent would become a family heirloom, passed on from daughter to daughter down the family line as a guide to any descendent who was crazy enough to make the long, hazardous, journey to this strange and absurd place. Charles was certainly giving her a lot to write about. She fervently hoped he would survive long enough to give her a daughter.

They were met on the outskirts of the City by a despatch rider, who she recognised as the clever young Lieutenant on Sir Joshua's staff, the one who made all the bad jokes in Morporkian.

"You've been busy, I see!" he said to Charles.

"Oh, we picked up a few friends on the way!" Charles said, airily.

"So I see. Sir Joshua has had tent lines prepared for you all, if you'll just step this way? You'll need to organise fatigue parties for latrines and so forth, but you've certainly got the manpower. We've got the spades you can borrow!"

They were led to a large open space on the city limits, where fatigue parties were already setting up large tents and were off-loading others from carts.

"You and your senior officers are required at the Palace, sir. Perhaps your sergeants can take over here?"

Charles delegated officer-of-the-day duties to the two subalterns, with orders for them to establish a camp. He nodded at the way the less inexperienced of the two said "Sergeant deGloem?" in a voice part authority and part pleading.

As the veteran sergeant set to, Charles relaxed. He'd have an orderly camp to return to later. He left deGloem and the others cheerfully barking orders to the footsore recruits, and the coach set off to the Palace, pausing briefly to drop off at the guild of Assassins, where one living and one dead Assassin were handed over at the gate. Charles shook hands with his erstwhile killer and handed him back a parcel of weapons, then waited for long enough to see the duty porters stepping out with a stretcher and blanket. Pausing only to get the head porter to sign a receipt, he waved goodbye, and the coach drew off again in the direction of Turnwise Broadway and the Palace.

"Stylish." said Johanna. "Done with _cool_. They will hate you for that!" She had been in Ankh-Morpork for long enough to have learnt a few things. And she was a fast learner.

Charles smiled a long slow smile.

"Entirely my intention." he said. "And done completely within their rules, too. The perfect insult."

They smiled at the thought of the failed Assassin having to explain himself to authority. Neither of them was naturally unkind, but however personable the young man had turned out to be, he _had_ put a large hole in Charles' hat.

They were still smiling when they arrived at the Palace, to be met by Lord Samphire's personal secretary, who rushed their party up the stairs to the Oblong Office. The sound of arguing braying voices drew louder as they approached.

"Damn it, Ronald! I shouldn't have to make it a direct order with men at your level, but if I have to, I will do! Will you not listen to sweet reason, man?"

"I am _not_ having _my_ men in those damn' rags! You've done this before, Joshua, but at least it was with your own regiments! You took them out of perfectly good scarlet and put them in _green,_ as if…as if…. they were some sort of Forest elves!"

"You have to admit, my Lord, it worked!" Charles said, mildly.

Lord Rust, red in the face, turned and gave him a look of glassy-eyed surprise.

"I read a little of the history of the Regiments of Ankh-Morpork on the voyage from Home" he said. "When the Toledans tried to gain advantage from the ongoing war in Zlobenia and Borogravia, and sent an army to occupy disputed borderland, they marched right past the Ramkin Brigade, who were in concealment. None of the Toledan scouts registered they were there. In the subsequent rather one-sided battle, a full Toledan division was routed by a well-camouflaged unit a third of its size. Who then went on to capture the border fortress of Badacojonez."

"Is this relevant?" Lord Venturi said, icily.

"Indeed, my lord. It was apparent that the fighting spirit of the Ramkin Brigade was not sapped by wearing a colour other than scarlet, and their fighting ability was enhanced by intelligent use of camouflage, in the form of their green uniforms. Therefore surely a precedent exists…"

"But _green,_ man!" exploded Lord Eorle. "Green! That's the Zlobenian colour. Look, you're a colonial and you can't be expected to know the niceities of warfare, but each nation has its own colour. It's long-standing tradition! We, of course, bagged good bright martial scarlet _first_. Quirmians wear dark blue."

He numbered them off on his fingers. "Zlobenians wear green. Überwaldeans have that damn very dark blue-grey, almost black"

"_Feldgrau_" Sir Joshua Ramkin said, helpfully. "Also known as _Cyanidesauerblau, _Prussic Blue. A good neutral colour that's almost as dam' good as camouflage."

Eorle ploughed on, not acknowledging him.

"Dam' Toledans wear yellow. Follows on. Hubsvensskans favour a pale sky blue with yellow trim. Dam' Brindisians wear white. Genua puts its chaps in stone-grey with pumpkin-coloured britches. Borogravia has that rather fetchin' lavender-purple.**(4)**

"But the point is, every country, by default, has its own colour and you don't go messin' with that. You just _don't._ Goes against all the rules! How are we supposed to know who's who on a battlefield, if you go messin' with the colours?"

Eorle nodded and stepped back, as if he had made an unassailable point. Charles shook his head.

"In any battle in my _colony,_ my Lord, we don't concern ourselves so much with the _niceties_ of what colour jacket the enemy is wearing. The general rule is that our enemies wear no jackets at all, and we identify them on a rather more fundamental issue of colour!"

Patrician Samphire intervened, seeking to change the topic.

"Welcome back to Ankh-Morpork, Mr Smith-Rhodes. I hear you've been busy these last few days?"

"I believe we succeeded in raising a Regiment in Sto Kerrig, sir. I am pleased!"

"Six hundred men, I hear." Sir Joshua Ramkin said, approvingly. "Dam' good work for two or three days!"

"And of course, the national colour of Sto Kerrig is of course _orange."_" Lord Eorle remarked. "Worn by their armies in the field for four hundred years now. Served this city well, gave those damned Hergenians a nasty shock in more robust times when our Kerrigian soldiers put down one of their bloody revolts!"**(5)**

He smiled a large self-satisfied smile.

"The Kerrigian Regiment will, of course, be wearing its traditional orange?"

Charles took a deep breath.

"No, my Lord." he said, firmly.

"No?"

"No. We will dress appropriately for the heat and the climate. We intend to wear the khaki uniform and the bush hat. I concede sergeants may need to be easily recognisable in the heat of battle, and an orange sash can be useful there, but I am not going to take men from this continent, who are not acclimatised to the dry heat of my homeland, and compound their discomfort by making them march in tight thick layers of woollen clothing buttoned up to the neck-stock."

He paused, looked directly into the eyes of each of the Lords in turn , and added:-

"And if you are wise, gentlemen, neither will _you_. We want an Army capable of fighting, not wards full of sunstroke and heat exhaustion cases!"

"That sounds eminently reasonable to me!" Lord Samphire said, firmly. He addressed the Lords.

"I am mindful to go with Sir Joshua's earnest advice and with the opinions of Mr Smith-Rhodes." he said. "As things stand, this is an academic point, as the factories have not yet turned out enough of this new pattern Howondalandian Service Uniform to equip all men who will be embarking. And I know I cannot easily command you to wear the uniforms, as I am not paying for the upkeep of your Regiments. You are. But at the very least…"

Samphire produced one of the new pattern lightweight tropical helmets.

Wee are agreed that in the blistering heat of Howondaland, this is a far more practical and somewhat stylish item of headwear than the shako. It covers the whole head and part of the shoulders, it is light, it is in a pale material that may easily be blancoed to white, and it carries a hatband which may be used to mount badges and plumes. All of you agree you would have no problem with such an article of headwear being issued to your men. Therefore I decree that at the very least, your men leave the shakoes at home and wear this pattern of helmet. Supply dictates that further supplies of this item will follow you in later ships in the convoy; Sir Joshua estimates that enough can be constructed for the entire expedition in six to eight weeks."

"Fectories in Howondaland can elso menufecture uniforms end headwear, given the petterns. Perheps the plens should be sent with us?" Johanna offered. She had a mental picture of Rust, Eorle and Selachii deciding to tip the unwanted new uniforms overboard as useless weight, halfway through the voyage. She wondered if her husband and Sir Joshua had the same suspicion.

"Thank you for the excellent submission, Mrs Smith-Rhodes. I'm sure the plans and patterns can be sent with you, for use by local industry in Howondaland, should there be any shortfall in the amount shipped with the troops."

Samphire looked at his army commanders.

"I'm aware I cannot _stop_ you embarking your men in their current uniforms. But at the very least, issue them a tunic and trousers in the new material as well. Perhaps the men can wear them on duties where they are out of the public eye? I am mindful of the need for a few "hearts and minds" parades in the main cities, to advertise the fact we are there and resolute in defence of our colonial kith and kin. I agree these ceremonial, political, duties are best done in full dress. But from everything I have heard, and it is wise to take advice about a country from people who live there _( he nodded at Charles and Johanna)_ , then you _must _allow your men, on arrival, time to get used to a new climate! I do not want to hear reports concerning large numbers of men dropping out with preventable heatstroke."

He glared at the generals again.

Borogravia last winter was bad enough, when we had the opposite problem." he remarked. "I did take note that incidence of frostbite and exposure among Lord Ramkin's troops was lass than a sixth of what it was among Lord Selachii's. Sir Joshua's provision of better boots, more blankets, the innovation of sleeping bags, sturdier tents, thicker and more durable overcoats, and a better supply of fuel for camp stoves might perhaps have had to do with that. If his prescient judgement and care for his men was proven then, I believe it is worth taking note of now. That is all."

Johanna had once seen snow, from a distance, as white caps on the high peaks of the Drakensbergs. She tried to imagine what it would be like if it were nearer to, and _everywhere. _And freezing cold were the default temperature. She failed. Ankh-Morpork in autumn was the coldest place she had ever been to in her life. Being told it got colder, far colder still, was outside her experience. **(6)**

The subordinate commanders filed rebelliously out.

"Do you think they'll bite the bullet and obey?" Samphire asked Sir Joshua, who shook his head ruefully.

"That lot? Hardly a chance. Issue 'em the new uniforms now, and you can bet given a chance they'll put it aboard as deck cargo and claim it was washed overboard in a storm." Ramkin said.

"How cen people be so stupid?" Johanna asked. "It's _obvious _any soldiers arriving in Howondaland should wear lightweight loose clothing!"

"We did a lot gettin' 'em to accept the new helmet." said Ramkin. "We'll have to be satisfied with that until we arrive and start taking un-necessary casualties because of the heat. Then they might relent a bit. After all, don't forget they've got to wear even more ornate uniforms in your country's heat. They're Generals, in their own eyes, they insist on the big heavy polished helmet, and the smart tunic with all the braid drippin' off it and the collar buttoned at the neck. That might incentivise 'em to dress down a bit!"

Ramkin grinned.

"Will you be coming with us to review the new Kerrigian regiment?" he asked Samphire.

"There's honestly not a lot to see at the moment." Charles staged, "They need a uniform and equipment issue, for one thing."

"After me Llamedosians are equipped in the new uniform – and Rust is only in charge of them, he ain't paying their costs – the next batch goes to your Kerrigians. For now, get 'em bedded in and fed. I'll see there's an issue of personal kit later today, all the little things like shaving kits, eating irons, mess tins, and so forth. Bucks their morale up no end if little things like this are sorted out at the start. Have your sergeant get them sorting their tent lines out today and setting a routine then we can make a start on drill and weapons training tomorrow."

"I'll have my secretary plan an afternoon of touring the troops." Samphire said. "For now, I'll be here, Sir Joshua."

Almost forgetting, and kicking himself for it, Charles realised his major and captain were in the ante-room . He introduced them to Sir Joshua and the Patrician . Military nicieties were exchanged, and then they were back in the yard again and returning to their coach.

The march to war was progressing. Soon they would be at sea.

* * *

**(1**) A British fear at the time of the Zulu war was that Russia was grooming the Zulus as a client state, possibly hoping to grab a part of Africa for itself as a colony, and to have access to strategically located all-weather ports and naval bases in Africa. By the end of the war, the Zulus had indeed made cavalry units operational, with the intention of using them as dragoons – the horses would have been used to give selected impis even greater mobility and range of movement. But the war ended too soon for this new weapon to be made telling.

**(2) **He would. His son, (who would, similarly, have a daughter late in life who he would call Sybil Deirdre Olgivanna), would be Lord Lawkes Drain Ulunghi Ramkin, known as "Lawkes" or "Drain-ugly!" to his peers. The ability of some parents not to _think_ when they name their children is a Multiversal phenomenon.

**(3) **A similar international incident was caused when bad map-reading by a Royal Navy officer saw him set a full Royal Marine Commando ashore, not on a training exercise in Gibraltar, but several miles down the coast in neutral Spain, who were not expecting a British invasion by several hundred fully armed commandos. Diplomatic apologies sorted this out, and the rather surprised Spanish army was demobilised from counter-attacking.

**(4) **Eorle is describing, in order, the traditional military colours of Great Britain, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Sweden, Italy, the Confederate States of America (Well...Genua has a Deep South Louisiana/ Dixie vibe to it) , Austria-Hungary, and Holland.

**(5) **On Roundworld, King William of Orange, King of Great Britain and Prince of Holland, put down an Irish rebellion at Boyne Water, in which Dutch troops wearing orange figured. Hence the quasi-mystical status of both King William and the colour Orange to Northern Irish Loyalists…

**(6)** Before they left for Home, Charles, who was also curious about how cold it could get, would fit in a fact-finding trip for their party to the Pork Futures Warehouse. After that she_ knew_ what cold was, and she wrote about it in her Journal with the sort of deep eloquence and feeling that left one of her linear descendants fully warned and informed.


End file.
